One morning I woke up with nothing
But a half-empty bottle and a half-written poem.
I finished the bottle but not the poem.
Then I slipped the poem inside the bottle
Which I floated on the ocean of my mind.
The waves were deep but kind.
It fetched up on the shore of my real self,
My self of truths and dreams
Which had no need of things
Luckily, for they had been given away
Or sold or stolen — what more I can say.
All that remained was my true self,
My sea-green mind and my bottled message
In all its poverty and obscurity,
Yet somehow innocent in its purity.