Ghost Ship With Mortal Chains

A ship sailed clear sunny waters
Wondering when words would bring it to life again
It waited out the sun as it gave way to its orange tired self
The words would have to come soon
To maintain efficiency

The hull was far from rotting
The deck bristling with order
Or at least pressed uniforms
Clipped smiles
And stiff salutes

Everything was rightly prosperous
Even lovely letters did what they were told
Transporting themselves to the proper locales
At the right time, the perfect hour

Meanwhile, the ship sat suspended
In a sea of conflicting orders
But uniforms saved the day
Ordered drills and cooked meals
Sending steely glares across the waves

There was no firm destination though
Just the name of a remote place
And rumors of ballistic bliss

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