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Potluck at the temple

Not a Drop to Drink

Shocked is the ship with no sailor left
and treasure not buried beneath.
Gold is less rigid and now it's flown swept
along with sand pearls in the sea.

Cast in thick nets, tied with emerald green hair
yank with quick strength on the weave.
Snakes without scales nailed shut every inch
securing crates crooked wax seams.

Rocked is the deck with no memory kept
of bright calcite drops on dim shores.
Home is less visage more hidden and vintage
creaking weakness erewhile secure.

Splashed with waves wet, are the toasted taut sails
that shared not an inkle of drought.
Stars plowed no clouds, dead man's cask rolls around
with drink sobbing out no more.