Some poems are prose in disguise. (Forget Marvell, forget Marlowe, you can always stay up past the hour of solitude and write again.) And some nightmares are covered in blessings, much like the way monsters tend to come out at night (as they do, as they do).
If you want to change the world you need coffee (to rule the world you need tea). And to string incoherent words into seemingly politically incorrect sentences, I wonder, what do you need? (Don’t ask Marvell that, you’ll never hear the end of it.)
In any case, it took me more than a decade to finally come to the unsettling conclusion that having countries in my skin is not exactly appealing to those who are not wander-lust. (Ah, maybe Yeats could have told you that a few lifetimes ago.) The same can be said of valleys, mountains, and lakes. Your legs can be borders and your eyes can be oceans but some people find that a very unsettling quality. (I guess not even poets can agree on that.)