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If starboard is always right, then...port is always wrong, The keel is happy and healthy as long as it doesn't start singing its song. The sails are well when tied or full but never in a storm, Steer clear of reef and rock and take 'er straight when rogue waves form. Be still in waters made of glass, let fired mornings tether~ Your worries to the anchor as you wait for fairer weather. In crimson sunsets seek the light and venture forth 'til morning, And rememeber all I've told you as a salty, sailor's warning.

Memories by the Lake We do not remember why, but we do this in remembrance. As if a sculpture etched, in our mind's dark hole, black and sticky and wet like our worker's hands on the clay, that we dredge up from our lake deep: deep and dark, as memory. We do not remember why, but we do this in remembrance. As if our swimmer's know, by bone - that deep tissue knowledge - that language we have lost, but is spoken in the gills and gulps of fish: This clay will not be used for pottery. We do not remember why, but we do this in remembrance. Our Chosen is parched and silent: The Swimmers swim; The Workers work; The Clay is soft and pliable. With gentle hands we wrap the feet - heavy, to speed the sinking. We do this to remember. MaggotsX @ 04.23.2023