What you read below started off as the following poem, originally posted here

  Courage is a rough shore.
  Never love a ship.
  Rough, rainy waves swiftly pull a clear, old reef.

Here is the current version as of October 21st, 11:35 EST

    Fountainheaded Leviathans swim swarming 
    delirium, the sailors' name for "sea" 
    that is the desert of becalmed disaster:
    
    no moon or stars or albatross, no winds
    or sun drawing maps on horizon-
    turned leather.  Adrift in the ebb tide
    where myth ships go dreaming

    a call 'cross creaking timbres, 
    the strummed rigging, morose song 
    a castaway island.  Every sail holds a memory
    of time bowing through trees

    and every red droplet: an acorn.  Every anchor
    an umbilical cord and every father a hornpipe 
    danced to cetacean threnodies.

    The lost boys sleep heavily with heavenly
    mystery in a setting resembling Dis.

    Farewell armchair
    farewell brindled stone 
    the pipes pontificating brownstone lattice
    can no longer skin your knee
    the call 'cross creaking timbres
    the only sound that remains for me

If you are interested in participating, let me know and I'll give you the powers of edit on the original post. All edits are anonymous. I've checked a few times a day and it's been changing...

Pretty Cool.