A sonnet about summer storms
i was sea sick; the waves crashing and knocked me to the ground
the great vile tidal waves suppressed my life and goods in their sickly, dampening splendor.
i could hardly fight them off, for standing too long drained me of energy and
the great splashes of sickness crashed on board.
i stood alone, alone, alone; just me and the sickness
entombed within a cocoon of nausea, frantically digging for the golden remedy.
alas, the remedy was not gold, but rose-gold!
i toasted the pink bottle to the sun and drank the night away.
swirling currents of pink foam like the dancing waves of the Atlantic
but rather internally, within myself and my own personal plumbing.
i felt the final beads of sweat dry off of my moist face as my body relaxed and the storm passed.
it subsided for an hour or so; but i am ready for the next round.
with the golden Pepto in hand, i can fight off any gastric monsoon;
the only remedy fit to keep my sickly body in tune.