I need no rocks to line my pockets –
dashed dreams and grave disappointment 
            weigh me down.

I slip easily into river
of sweet forgetfulness, soothing
            waters calm.

Madness muted, what relief to find
resting place. Yes, my story could
            end as yours.

Ah, to pronounce it all finished, life
surrendered because some things are
            meant to die.

But surely we are meant to reach
for a tolerable day and
            survey fair

England’s countryside, think it enough.
Oh, Virginia, I know it is 
            not enough.

I appraise perfect gardens that would
have us equate order without,
            peace within.

Endless appointments and little pink
pills say otherwise, expose my
            vast disorder.

Reckless waters call to me, too, and
I know I need no rocks to line
            my pockets.