the joyless landscape yields no faintest sign to which the hope might cling
Dry Dock

Water pours out of a hole filled hull
sail's broken
rudder's gone
wood's rotten

an ideal world would send
this mess to be scrapped

the canvas on the sail is passable
the deck is still in decent shape

but somehow this shattered mess
is hoisted into dry dock
under the promise

she will sail again

Excerpt from \"Cocoon\" by Jack Johnson · Dry Dock


snowed in

frostbitten