Destiny, according to Webster
is a predestined course.
Its water are channels
of irresistable force.

It reminds me of the bottle
I set out to sea
from my deserted isle,
come rescue me.

I spoke of my wreck
in storm angry seas.
The screams and the prayers
and the woeful pleas.

I alone washed up
on the barren sand
with pitiful nothings
of the ship contraband.

My destiny was charted,
my life sore and lone.
Destiny's waters surrounded
my islandic throne.

I bottled my plight
and put message afloat.
Lit high reaching blazes
for a bypassing boat.

Foraging, fishing
and a sharpened spear
kept me living on
year after year.

Desolate hours I sat
atop my watery grave
hearing pounding reminders
of Destiny's wave.

I hung myself dead
on the day I learned,
in amongst the rocks
my bottle had returned.

Poseidon's civil servant
wrote on my SOS.
Insufficient Postage
RTS.