by Nick Gisburne
A thick emulsion drips from every deck,
A slurry of contaminated oils.
The ship, once gleaming, now a twisted wreck,
Is choked with curdled coolant from its coils.
The salvage bandits, itching to descend,
Await a final scan to get their ‘go’.
All penetration protocols depend
On who survived. How many. Any? No.
They crack the hull, and watch their baby bleed,
A thousand bodies thick, a human tide,
The richest of the rich, their brazen greed
Irrational, irrelevant. They died.
The auto-pilot, sabotaged in flight,
A simple act of jealousy and spite.
