An ominous storm cloud rolls across the sky
a bit out of synch with what I see with my mind’s eye.
The world is coming to an end
– no news to me.
To be born again
I reckon at first you must die for the very first time.
I’ve done that before
I’ve succeeded before so why try again?
I am familiar with the calm before the storm
but I never got much education on what do next
when the skies are clear
is it smooth sailing from here on in?
Did the rain wash away the scars that had formed?
Or is it the same as it always was?
it’s always the same
as it was before.
It’s a matter of which thoughts
and which memories
to inhabit my mind.
I weathered the storms
by sleeping through half of them
the psychotropic effects
of green eggs and ham.
Now the notion of romantic love
has washed to the shore
rather than cleansing the palette
it gets stuck to the roof of my mouth
like cosmic peanut butter and jam.