The Bulkhead

August 23, 2015

Sunken footsteps trail across
The beach, each wave slowly
Eroding pockets of wet sand.
Among the debris, driftwood,
And perfectly smooth stones,
There stands a hollow shell.

Her hull is rusted from years
Of tireless salty air, portholes
Nothing but suggestions of
The glassy spaces of old.
A steamship laid to ruin,
She will never port again.

In ages past, she’d stand,
Resolute against the wars of
Men and against time itself.
Now, an empty vessel, she’s
Forever beached, aground
With no hope of return.

Too few are willing to peer
Through the broken glass,
Afraid of what still remains.
Her corpse marks this place,
A shipwreck and a graveyard;
None alive know her name.



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