Back in twenty-fourteen’s July,
An old gray ship was left to die.
A frigate tired, its battles done,
Decommissioned, stripped by everyone.
To break it down, they drained the dock,
The ship stood high on wooden block.
No water near, no waves in sight,
Just steel and shadow, day to night.
The only way to board the deck,
A single ramp — one narrow trek.
No ropes to climb, no doors to sneak,
Just that one path, both small and bleak.
When night had come and work was still,
A foreman climbed with practiced skill.
He snapped his shots from stern to bow,
With flashlight dim and furrowed brow.
Click — flash — the halls would glow,
Then darkness swallowed all below.
He took his pics, then left the hull,
A quiet night, the air was dull.
He sent the photos to his boss,
No thought of fright, no sense of loss.
Till moments later, came reply,
“Who’s that with the axe, and why?”
The foreman froze, his heart turned ice,
He’d walked those halls not once but twice.
Alone, he swore, through every floor,
Yet now a man stood by the door.
An axe in hand, his face unseen,
A shadow where no soul had been.
The photo clear, the light was true —
Someone was there… but who?
They checked the ramp, reviewed the feed,
No trace of entry, none indeed.
From when he came to when he fled,
No living man had moved or tread.
So who had stalked those hollow halls,
Behind the steel, beneath the walls?
A ghost? A man? A phantom dream?
To this day — none know what it means.