What you read below started off as the following poem, originally posted here
Here is the current version as of October 21st, 11:35 EST
Courage is a rough shore. Never love a ship. Rough, rainy waves swiftly pull a clear, old reef.
If you are interested in participating, let me know and I'll give you the powers of edit on the original post. All edits are anonymous. I've checked a few times a day and it's been changing...
Fountainheaded Leviathans swim swarming delirium, the sailors' name for "sea" that is the desert of becalmed disaster: no moon or stars or albatross, no winds or sun drawing maps on horizon- turned leather. Adrift in the ebb tide where myth ships go dreaming a call 'cross creaking timbres, the strummed rigging, morose song a castaway island. Every sail holds a memory of time bowing through trees and every red droplet: an acorn. Every anchor an umbilical cord and every father a hornpipe danced to cetacean threnodies. The lost boys sleep heavily with heavenly mystery in a setting resembling Dis. Farewell armchair farewell brindled stone the pipes pontificating brownstone lattice can no longer skin your knee the call 'cross creaking timbres the only sound that remains for me