I'm still poor

I'm still poor,
no jacket
for the cold
Antarctic;
no ticket
to fly back
to my home,
the islands
there, Southeast;
no good food,
only canned meats,
icicles
boiled for drinks.
My supplies
would dwindle
fearfully
the harsh months
ghoul over
the home base
like an old,
wronged yeti.

The world is
quite sad here.
Nothing proud
to share with.
I thought that
hefty rich
distances
would calm me.
Out here though,
the weather's
more brawny,
while my own
weather's quite
lunatic.

What I've done,
what I chose
flays me well.
I feel less
of my flesh
desire the
hold further
to my bones.
Almighty
Lord above,
Blessed God
the Father,
Son of Man,
forgive me
for I don't
know what I
have done, what
to do and
what I am
still doing.