The Battle Junk

From the mist comes a shape too wide to flee. A wall of

wood and iron cut in the sea. High sides scarred from a thousand

wars, painted in smoke, prayer, and gore. She doesn't rush,

she doesn't turn. She lets the tide and the enemy learn. When that hull

shows broad and true, every captain knows what's due. No panic here,

no broken line. Just steady hands and perfect time. You can run but you won't

outlast. This ship was built to make you crash. Battle junk,

standing tall. You don't chase, you let them fall. Anchor down,