My eyes catch every word to lose the story
They glide through currents, while never getting wet
Each ebb and flow of the wine-dark sea
Becomes a chance merely for me
To attempt to train my skill
In casting a net, roughly-wrought and pulling in
All manner of fish, tugging and struggling to free themselves
But only a couple breaking free
So too, I turn to capture figments and phrases
While Homer lays unread.
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