Unpacking

If you think about it,

I’m not unlike the ocean.

You only see a square mile of me

at any given point.

Under the water and out of the way,

I’m a fish,

and the star upon which I wish

is a fish two.

I drink the air like I’m not scared of flying.

I am.

I think I’m there,

so there’s no point in trying.

The day is long,

but my life is longer

than a couple dozen hours,

the time it takes to turn a dove

into a flower,

a symbol of growth

meaning the most to Our Host.

I am the Host

and I haunt my home like a sulky ghost.

And if I held a roast,

I’d probably cry and lie by saying,

“I was laughing!”

Cast greater silence,

roll a 20.

Drown me,

I’m off the rails.

no more wind to fill

my bubbling sails.

I’m waterlogged,

my bones are frail,

and I’m not feeling so good.

Got a pail?

I’ll leave behind an ocean

that none will ever cross.

I’m at a loss,

and now the air is still,

and I have no more steam

to carry this boat.

I’m going to sit and fester,

breed lichen and bugs

that none have ever seen.