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Rusty metal planks.
Grinding on dusty waves.
Pouring grit into the froth of a noonday sun.
Balancing the pitiless tides-hardened road,
passing the silence of green.

The jaded crew sticked under deck,
brave sleeping hearts.
The sweaty flesh, distorted in boredom,
abandoned by its skeletons,
yelling and twirling their spines on the swinging roof.

I am ready for the bumps and jumps
boarding our small red rigid ship.
The coach being blown into the wild,
we, left behind,
floating on blood and bones.

But our mate is a wheel.
Fate fortune.
This ship has no anchors anyway.
Green aweigh!