Sonnet #180

I can imagine Hell, but never Heaven

When I think of death, I can picture

A nightmare that extends in structure

to unravel a soul in a comatose prison

But what of heaven? How can the dream

of peace we forget upon awaking let

us imagine an eternity of forget, forget

And would I even be who I think I am?

When I think of what a soul might be

I think of memory, the story of myself

The way I tell myself and you our histories

Forget all loves, for those are stories, shelves

full of books disintegrating, stuck together

All this dust was once the library of Alexander