The ship of dreams

By Roger Chao

Upon the sea where moonlight wove its silver thread through endless foam,
A ship of legend, vast and bold, arose to claim the waves her home.
Her rivets gleamed, her gilded decks stretched long as fate and high as pride,
She bore a name that trembled tongues, a beacon none could cast aside.

They called her great, they called her vast, the wonder of a mighty age,
Her polished walls reflected power, her banners snapped in haughty rage.
And he who ruled her, fierce and loud, stood high upon his captain’s throne,
Proclaiming seas would bow in awe, the tide itself was his to own.

No wave could rise to shake his reign, no storm could shake his rigid hand,
No rival force, no whispering doubt, could halt the future he had planned.
For in his mind, his word was law, his sight was clear, his course divine,
And all who trembled at his voice were lesser men, by fate’s design.

The ship surged forth, her hull aglow with gilded boasts and gleaming steel,
Her smokestacks spewed a roaring trail, her fortune’s path was fixed and real.
And in the ballroom, drenched in wealth, the faithful danced and sang his name,
They clutched their goblets, cheered his boasts, and swore the seas would play his game.

Far on the bridge, where watchmen peered through bitter winds and salty spray,
A murmur rose, a warning spoke, of frozen ghosts the realm of the fey.
But down below, where mirrors shone and chandeliers shed golden light,
No fear could stir the revellers’ hearts, no gloom could pierce their blind delight.

And lo, upon the icy brine, a shape arose – white, vast, and still,
A silent monolith of fate, indifferent to the captain’s will.
The watchers gasped, the message rang, a cry went forth, a desperate call,
But from his throne he merely laughed, for nothing great could ever fall.

“No force can pierce this mighty hull!” he roared above the growing din,
“No frosted peak, no whispering shade, can challenge me or a fight win!”
And so they charged, full steam ahead, to carve their mark upon the deep,
Blind to the ruin lurking there, the frozen doom, the eternal sleep.

Then – screeching steel, a thundering crack the iceberg struck its unseen mark,
And through the hull, where pride had swelled, there rushed the sea so vast and dark.
The ship, so great, so proudly built, began to lurch, began to groan,
And in the halls where banners flew, the truth crept forth in hushed, cold tone.

Still he stood, his jaw set firm, dismissing fear with jeering scorn,
“This ship was built to stand through time! The fools who doubt shall be forsworn!”
The water climbed, the decks grew slick, the tilting floor sent screams below,
Yet he declared, with arms outstretched, “The tide is weak, it does not grow!”

The ballroom shook, the chandeliers swayed wild as glass and silver crashed,
The faithful clung to what remained, their painted smiles breaking, their hopes dashed.
“The ship is stout, it will not break!” he bellowed through the chaos loud,
Yet even as he spoke, the sea had swallowed half the drowning crowd.

Still he sneered, still he mocked, as water pooled around his feet,
“The ship is fine! Ignore the storm! This tempest bends to my decreet!”
And though the stern rose to the sky, and though the prow plunged ever deep,
He would not bow, he would not yield – it was a doom he could overleap.

A final snap, a groaning wail, the ship was torn in halves at last,
And still he swore that he remained, untouched, unbowed, though sinking fast.
The tide embraced his golden throne, the sea devoured his mighty boast,
And though he gasped, and though he fought, he faded like a silent ghost.

When dawn arose upon the waves, the wreckage floated, cold and bare,
No trace remained of golden halls, no echo lingered in the air.
A name once carved in roaring steel was lost beneath the cruel abyss,
And all his cries, all his boasts, were drowned out by Poseidon’s kiss.

For history does not abide the man who claims he rules the tide,
No vessel, vast or gleaming gold, can stand when fate trumps pride.
The sea is patient, silent, strong – it waits for those who climb too high,
And when they fall, their voices fade, as hollow echoes lost in sky.

So heed the tale of one so grand, who soared upon his own acclaim,
Who named himself above the tide, and thought he burned and endless flame.
For all the gilded, blaring boasts, for all the steel and roaring might,
The ocean knows no master’s name, and drags all hubris into night.

 

Also by Roger Chao: The Measure of a man

 

Roger Chao is a writer based in the beautiful Dandenong Ranges, where the forest and local community inspire his writings. Passionate about social justice, Roger strives to use his writing to engage audiences to think critically about the role they can play in making a difference.

 

 

 

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