The Flying Dutchman, at least,
had the hope of a reprieve;
every seven years
he could come ashore
and search for the one true love
who would redeem him.
It's hard to imagine
his desolation at the start of
each seven year stint.
My illness will have a reprieve;a death.
Only I do not know when or where.
Already, it's as if I've spent a lifetime
sailing the open seas,
rounding, again and again,
the Cape of Good Hope.
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