Frothy sea lips kiss rocky shores,
gale winds stall the massive hull
on the skirts of the Isle.
Unapproachable, an empty berth
awaits Nautica.
Schedule slips by hours,
impatients grow weary.
Glistening rays dance
on horizon’s floor.
Morning stretches
to touch meridian sky.
The Isle of Katakolon calls
out to greet to reminisce
ancient games
of millenniums past.
Beckons our witness to ruins
of Olympia playgrounds.
The Isle,
waits to seize our presence,
—much to the merchants chagrin.
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