M.C. Escher plots our course on canvas,
small are we to steer this ship astorm, for
ours' the impetus of fear and reckless-
-ness; a fated crew of trusting fools (and more.)
Drowned are mut'nous thoughts in muteness, damned no-
-bility the captain's prize in passing,
pride's heroic caption's worth a trophy,
doomed to feed the sea's prestige, amassing lore.
Pause to trawl the ocean's feet for medals,
(you'll) stir up history's repeating circles,
urged to swim the singularity's snare,
warnings don't dissuade - they harbor despair.
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