I’m still not comfortable
in the man o’ war.
I haven’t quite found that infamous label that is
apparently
attached to me, somewhere.
I’m enjoying dancing between the tentacles
trying not to get stung. So far
so good. But
as the man o’ war keeps growing
I go along with the tide;
ebbing further away
from the shore that’s flagged with my title.
Too far for telescope,
no hope of reading it, reaching further.
Mirage? Who’s to know.
The bruises show the wrong type of blueprint.
Soon I will be carried into the man o’ war
forevermore.