Pirate Bay

Why weary now, friend, the white bell
Rings. If we breathe in hush, the stale
Corpse won’t let out the scream, the
Dreams won’t feel like birds, sea shells-

The old, foamy sea when muffled the cry
Of help. And hid in a petty man’s sty,
When the storm raged, breaking the sills
Of the bay, making the brave ships fly.

Home is a harbour, in a coherent play
Of love; torn, silly ships, in which stay
Till the storm dies, skull-crossbones
Adorns the navy blue sky. A pirate bay.

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