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Rated: ASR · Poetry · History · #1974760
The ill-fated Titanic.
For the Titanic, sinking was proof
of a cocksure, overconfident collective ego.
Rivets aplenty held Belfast Child secure, her
tonnage unsurpassed, each watertight compartment
yet further evidence of man’s superiority.

Since Alexander crossed the Alps,
herein would man build ships to reach
across the Atlantic, that tempestuous sea,
(down went silver, Euro coin of its day, even gold),
emerging industrious from a much simpler time,
securing iron plates to erect an ocean-going colossus.

Opulence a theme, a gilded age long ago,
forty shades of green en masse, as if
greed was every coup requiring a golden egg.
Ramps called gangways admitted complex folk, or
even simple minds eager and intent to find a new home.
Either way, the die was cast to rendezvous with ice,
naked with disdain to any potential collision.


18 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
January 31, 2014


Requirements:

--Belfast Child
--Alexander
--Euro coin
--forty shades of green
--simple minds


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