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

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