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Henry Feb 2019
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?
K Balachandran Aug 2017
middle parted hair,
eyes go down to her naval
arrested at cleavage

— The End —