Randomly shuffling through everything
in his rambling collection of dusty archives-
he searches for some clue,
some hint of solid truth,
“Is this all?” he demands aloud
to the incredulous air.
It wasn’t in the least the way he remembered it.
(In unhappy fact, it wasn’t the way he cared to remember it.)
He found the whole revelation utterly distasteful.
Was this all that was left of his life?
thinned-out over the ages
by choice or change or the grindstone of Time,
boxes and bags of him remained,
the detritus of a life lived.
But it felt like someone else’s life
as though he were a detective
secretly surveilling himself from a distance,
“Is this ALL!”
“Ephemera!” he spat.
muttering: “We are smoke.
Smoke and shadow.”
(7- 30- 79)
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