Cling to me, for I am your mast
and I will buckle under both tempest and hydra;
for my strength withers, had begun its decay the morn
I was cut from my roots, shuttled from my home,
honed by sawdust-sore hands.
It took a sacrifice of two digits to craft me,
and those little phantoms follow me, rampant,
their vengeance digging silt-and-calcium
--- like petrified holy wafers--- into my length.
Cling to me, pray to my body,
roughen me hopefully with desperate hands
so seaworn, so
coarse, as whisker-kissed
jaws and cheeks
stretch in ghastly, untimed horror
. . . .
A/N: Meh. I do not really care for this one myself.