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?

Nothing changes

it’s always the same

as it was before.

It’s a matter of which thoughts

and which memories

I choose

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.