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





. . . .

at this.

A/N: Meh. I do not really care for this one myself.