A Lady Upon The Figurehead

A  lady upon the figurehead
Standing proud in the breeze
Calling to the Sirens & wenches
Knowing the truth of these seas
Her beauty remaining firm & intact
The ship around her orange with rust
The sailors with splinters in their palms
For she has a wooden bust

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Maybe Those Were The Days

  

Maybe those were the days
I wasn’t so perfect, structured or neat
Rebelling against all humanity
Could’t tell the difference in defeat
A crooked line to follow
A wrinkled brow upon the figurehead
Our dreams fractured when applied
Lost within reality’s pragmatism instead