Ecliptica 4

[presentabsence]

A past life may not be a grave, but a mirror.
It may wear your face, or none at all.
It may speak in your voice or grunt in the maw of beasts.

A past life may be a Lie mistaken for Truth,
or a Truth which could only be reached as story.
It may be the name your cells whisper when you forget your own.

Some past lives still walk,
strangers who share your grief like a greeting.
Others are moments, places, monsters, gods,
knotted threads in the tapestry of Reality.

They come not in order, for order does not exist, but in orbit.
They are visitations from overlapping Selves,
refractions of the Source through a glass yet unshattered.
Each one a ripple, a scar,
a door.