It began as an idea underwater,
a shape pressed against the tide’s limits,
a question of how deep night could go.
They built it not to surface,
to make dark into something boundless,
a machine that breathes where we cannot,
a sleek invention of quiet resilience.
Nuclear light cracked open its lungs,
no more the hungry gasps of diesel,
no more batteries running out of courage.
This was fission spun into eternity,
a flame that hums beneath the waves.
In the Cold War’s sharp-edged shadows,
it carried secrets too dense for air,
slipped past borders hidden in its stillness,
an invincible thought that swam deeper.
Something about it felt like defiance,
a refusal to be tethered to daylight,
a choice to live untouchable, unseen,
a warship that dreamed of eternity’s peace.