The Battleship

Her masts, regal and stately, soar above the seas.
Her bow plunges undaunted toward her prey.
Her rage flares and her presence commands veneration.
She is the instrument of battle defending freedom and honor.

Smoke billows from painted gunwales;
thunderous cannon her imposing voice.
Her eyes flash - salt air is torn by licking flames.
She is the instrument of battle singing her song of death.

Decks shudder. Men sweat as they serve her,
feeding the chambers with powder and wad,
their backs bending and breaking in the rituals of war.
She is the instrument of battle impervious to peril.

Ripped asunder by her ceaseless bombardment,
the gates of hell are thrown open by her salvo.
Pulsing with furious activity, a hive of fear and trepidation,
She is the instrument of battle unrelenting in her attack.

All quake in her presence as she looms through the night.
Bristling with torrid anger she bears down with fury.
Thrashing through the waves, she howls with vengeance.
She is the instrument of battle holding mortals in contempt.

One man dares be her master, pledging constance unto death.
He musters courage to be her equal as he strides upon her planks.
His passion blazes unbridled. He is consumed by her.
She is the instrument of battle. She is magnificent.


Summer 1999