Stumbling Down Jerusalem

Life is a vessel at sea with a hundred masts.  We walk the deck by night, sniffing the heavy air for the scent of oranges, which might portend imminent landfall.  Days are spent coiling ropes, clockwise; uncoiling them, and coiling them counterclockwise.  The footing is treacherous, but even the dangers are monotonous.  It's all off in the distance, everything we most desire and are most curious about, but we get closer to it only by accident.  The ship goes its own way, inscrutably, incrementally, in soft, callous rhythms.

I once saw over the edge of the world.  There were not monsters there, but only lamp posts topped with tulips. I hope this helps.

Portable mastications lend their truncheons to all the little mousetraps.  Plausible?  Not so fast, Buster!  In doubt of the recidivists, many tall Romans push red mandibles.  Fork lifts, but knife soldiers on.

And then it was back to the voyage.  Sailors aloft; but it's foggy and they've become invisible.  Or perhaps they have become seabirds and flown away.