Rammed into the weedbed she found her way to shore.
Her thoughts invaded by her crew who shifted on her boards.
Back across the water; her visions through a door.
One that shut repeatedly when shipmates pulled her chords.
Resting now as though a chore
that sailors leave like lords.
Down the boardwalk from the floor
relieving her in hoards.
Maiden ship from head to core
who's damage comes in torrids.
Without these journeys and your lore
these men would have no swords.