this tea is bitter.
i may have bit off
more than i can chew.
a bit of rhinovirus, or other,
is more or less my invitation
to morgue.

by morning i may be adorned in plastic.
stuffed in a bag in mortuary.
a toe tag to keep me unique
amongst random John Doe's.

what'll my obituary read?
he died of poetry..
the kings of the world decided
this one needed to be silenced.

land **, i say..
i spy my old home.
from across a great ocean,
I'll arrive in the bay
and depart my boat.

my trusty old dinghy.

I'll fall to my knees
and kiss the sand,
promising to return again
to the violent seas
that repeatedly
wash me ashore.

i remember this place
from a long, long time before.

it's as gorgeous as i remember..

..

.