SAILING THROUGH
THE INCONGRUITIES
If I fall asleep, it's no fault of my own,
these swelling seas no longer swell, this
sea is growing more calm as I approach.
These. Gates. Of ? (what, that rhyme
goes here)? Hell! Lithsome dainty
warrior, oh bring me something
home to wear. Or must I tell the
shadow doctor what he doesn't
wish to hear? (His wife is dead,
now, in a hundred different keys.)...
But, as lucky as he is, it too would
pass before him unobscured. He
Would. Never. Care. That man
is unbowed.
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