It's me, I'm lost, no Compass sees my way
A Ship, wrecked wracked and ruined upon the Strand
Alone through cold I'm numb, un-feeling spray
My Grave waits in a strange and foreign land
Remains I know have washed up on this Shore
the Salvage of the ways that I once knew
My Nineveh, my Mission is no more
Revenge will leave me empty, now where to?
These talents spilled in sand, what can they buy?
Don't mourn for me, for that old man must die.
I'm built anew, exotic, fortified
From stuff of Wreckage splintered in my Heart
I'll build a Treehouse high up in my Mind
From broken Days, forgotten Poems and Art
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Triumphant Mr. Griffin. You're good. This is a beautiful sonnet.
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