Am I supposed to quietly fade out of existence
like a blinking star
or a guttering candle?
Is there a ghost town
waiting for me over the next hill
with rows of gravestones
rising at awkward angles
out of the dead leaves and high grass?
I wait for the next wave
which does not arrive
somewhat like a beached whale
thrown up by the sea.
Cool breezes replace the heat
of the cruel sun.
A stranger walks alone on the beach.
Has he come to save me?
My whale flesh feels cold and dry to his touch.
He peers into my dull blue eye.
I wonder if he can see
the young whale swimming
in the sea of pure consciousness.