Old. Weathered wood stripped by storms and battles.
Torn. Stretched cloth mildewed and stained.
Restless. Never a peaceful inland repose.
Laden. Always another one to carry.
Gracefully missing the mountains of the deep.
Carefully leaning against the moon's urgent pulls.
Gnostically aware of the twisting cyclones below.
Fearfully passing the slumbering aqueous beasts.
I get past, though obstacles inhibit me.
I stay afloat though the waves crash against me.
My heading straight though my course, redirected.
I am afraid, not, though enemies around (me).
Salt scented air, sweeter at moontime, cooled
by polar ice making way in buoyant waters.
Suntime is for sight seeing, but with night eyes
I traverse the liquid plane, and dream, always.
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