“Death is nothing to us, for when it is,
we are not, and when we are, it is not”
is a simple argument which boxes
in sad fears, staving off the luscious draw
of material acquisition and
its frenemy clinical depression;
it’s Seneca who promised to open
his veins in a warm bath, and did just that
because the emperor ordered him thus
and we know what ******* Socrates did
curing himself of life like a disease
equating obedience with justice
but my will is strong even as madness
swirls, I’ll oblige no hemlock nor razor
I don’t like this sonnet. I’ve been out of practice and haven’t written anything in a long time. I was trying to express a sense of mental fortitude in the face of adversity that I get from having studied philosophy, but the tone is kind of depressing. Posting it anyway.