Sonnet from a body
Dreams are a lie that consciousness has told
to give it comfort in the span of sleep:
for in their absence, death has taken hold,
as far as notions that the mind may keep.
When thought is gone, what innocence remains?
The corpse persists – the anima has fled –
to leave behind an empty nest of brains.
To think that I have spent a night in bed,
the continuity of me derailed
by death, so far as thinking was concerned!
My body, where my spirit was impaled,
has rested soundly – by mind’s absence learned
that it is being’s true home, not petty thought.
We are our bodies, much as we wish not.
Sonnet for a context
Sometimes I am a bubble floating in
and popped by present moment’s piercing need:
I’m newborn, having neither thought nor sin.
Until an instant traps me, I am freed.
And when the context catches up with me,
it pins me to a present tense with doubt:
Am I more than a moment? Can I be
the history my brain churns and spits out?
Or was I cultured on a slice of time,
a Petri dish of my forgetfulness,
and is this déjà vu I feel a rhyme
heard soft, the squealing screwing of a press
that laminates my life in “now” and “then”?
I thought this once, but can’t remember when.
Sean Patrick is a scientist and sonnet aficionado. Their poetry has appeared in Grand Little Things, UniVerses, Blue Unicorn, and Lavender Lime Literary.