Dropping Anchor

And now the sweater vests are clinging to us like spam to an inbox.
The rocks climb and the seas swim only to see the future under a rose colored glass.

I know there must be a god or at least a map;
that can assist with the current state of recreational sub-existence.

Flushed & febrile
I quaintly wait for the ocean floor to become my ceiling.

I will place this message in the bottle…..
ever so carefully, as not to break the shallow halls of fortitude.


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