What's Left Behind

I often wonder what’s left behind

When you go away to dream,

A hollow, rigid sort of rind?

A humorless shell of some kind

With a winding baseball seam?

Does the brain�"a toddler left alone�"

Skip and laugh and play that much?

And with the veins play double-dutch?

Or idle, with a hypothetical foot

On a metaphorical clutch?

Maybe when it’s alone and free

From utilitarian tyranny,

It gets up and dances, twisting and shaking

Before that irritating hour of wakening

And revels in the irony.

Or is it jealous of me in my other dimension?

Would it lay there still, glum and weak?

Would speaking aloud be a convention?

Just letting it all out? Not to mention

What language would it speak?

Does it gibber on in Dutch or Spanish?

And hope to, with words, a thought to banish,

A thought, in the dark, of mingled fear?

            Or does it, do you think, simply vanish?

Does it… you know… just disappear?

Author's Note

Please tell me what you think, thanks for reading