I like to believe
in partial reincarnation
that when people die
their essence is broken
into millions
of fragments
shards of spiritual glass
some with razor sharp edges
but these pieces
they need somewhere to go
so they find us
and we are made up of all
who came before us
always carrying pieces
so every new person
is more human
than the last
and maybe souls find like recipients
painters seeking out painters
and so forth
and I like to imagine
that a great writer
found my soul
but it seems far more likely
that it was the village idiots
who settled in my being