Whatever Reverie
by Brasswax

Split Sonnet/s

The only currency that counts is time, and
very few appreciate. Statistically, a random

human life has better chances of fulfillment
—love, health, wealth, whatever—these

days than in any prior age. The word is out,
and yet what masochist would ask for this,

to be brought into being without consent?

/

Who among us chose to be alive, whatever
where and when one’s here and now? Two

beasts smashed (most commonly, perhaps
even by choice), and so begat another self

embodied in a geometric manifold of scale
at once so vast and also vanishingly small it
​
neutralizes metaphor. Did you? What for?
​

CLOCKHOUSE Volume Thirteen