Cya! (W.I.P.)

Now, I can’t talk
for the rest of them,
but my feelings
are thus:

a man-made plank
seven inches thick
breathes in the ocean’s gust,

and just so I
come to walk it once,
it beckons to me, “Do!”

Implores me for
it sees on shores
its daughter’s soul anew.

Thus ships whereon
fateful timber’s sprung
may also look like cliffs,

and when I jump
from the plank you built,
its your face shall see fists.

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