Escaping the confinement of a tin urn, my ashes
are soon dispensed by a gentle sea breeze
All which remains is lifted like it had wings,
from out of the southeast, warmed
by the Gulf streams temperament;
I am not the slightest bit cold.
Scattered like a purified dew
on the face of a virgin sea
I am finally free…
2008 © TS
Ted Sheridan
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/at-last-7/
