Dead Again, Born Again

Every morning I wake up before the sun and wait barefoot on the porch. I was dead and it was supposed to be the last time. But here I am three years from my birth still attached to my memories of the past, waiting to understand. What good reason could this soul that yearns for the embrace of finality have to be back again? Every day I've been back I look at my body; how can it age again, what more must it see? Sometimes I see the flicker of my wrinkled hand attached to me who is a child. None of this makes sense and the heavens are silent. Not a cloud nor a star is willing to speak to me. What did I miss?