Putrid scent of rotting elm
A hollow vessel, none at helm
Floating, Drifting, Swaying yet
A smoke-filled room, a shallow bet
What more than logs can human be
With not a helmsman in his sea?
For what’s a ship without its crew
But dying wood and foamy slew?
Feb 21, 2019
Feb 21, 2019 at 2:13 AM UTC
