When the Milk Goes Bad

A sea of pure white,
Pristine in all but its smell:
Rancid and sickly.

The boats that sail it,
Formed from the milk that they ride,
Are curdled icebergs.

They ride the white waves,
Pushed by sweet and sour winds,
Aimless, unwanted.

Their journey: endless,
Though when found by another,
It ends in a drain.

Spinning with the sea,
Sea and icebergs united,
They perish: swish, slosh.

The End

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