Wanderlust

 

“Why only Seven Seas?” he wondered,
The condensation of childish impertinence
Dusk-drawn on moustached promise.
“Surely seventeen
Serves better exploration’s edict?”
No echo gave answer (much less acquiescence),
Sand-swallowed by canvas dune-dotted.
So onwards he drifted, ever-orphaned
From Odyssean pusuit. Never would he kiss
The blue mother’s waveworn lips.

 

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