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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The ship of dreams I have never been to Sylhet, Bangladesh it doesn’t matter it was in May, the rain was relentless, and the last Bengal tigers had drowned in a flood plain and a famous man had been buried in a led coffin in the Bay of Bengal. I had been stuck for a week on an elderly bulk ship while waiting for scrap iron to fill the hulls, the sad rests of once proud ship the oceans to be cut to pieces with disregard of the inanimate that had histories untold. The grisly irony for the elderly ship, it was her last voyage she had to return to the same noisy, ty little town to become scrap iron and nobody gave this great indignity not a second thought, humanity gave a On the voyage to Australia, she sank deeper into the sea then usual otherwise, she ploughed at on at a reduced speed she was sinking slowly like an aged man in the shallow end in a swimming pool. When the sea washed over her decks, authorities were called and the crew manned the lifeboats, but she didn’t go down right away, she lingered under the sea’s surface for days when the navy came to rescue the crew, she had sunk more. Having absorbed, over the years, the wishes and hopes of many She became animate and could sense her surroundings and sense hurts, the heartache of a crew member whose wife left him The navy simply torpedoed the ship as a danger to shipping.
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