territorial rifts change sticks
and stones into verbal atom bombs
breaking our guard and leaving
a small shell
that the ocean permeates
with its serene sound of the clap
of white caps on the unbruised shoreline
which is taken to its grave
by the screech of a Siren
luring the corsairs to their demise
oh bountiful breasts
and flowing golden locks
don't encompass me in death.
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