Touching arms lead north

where the lights shimmer green and gold.

Under which we sail

for downward turns are guiding.

A moss-lace back; green

and writhing we scuttle forth.

Hands rush to a beat

beneath currents that form our future.

To hasten is to be free and

solitary, without dilemma and dehydrated thought.

Let me go to a foamy crazy

as these undocked knights watch onward.

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