Hmm, imagine a craft slicing through the void, each panel a stanza, the curves a rhyme scheme—like a poem that never pauses, only glides into the next line of spacetime. The rocket’s hull becomes the metronome, its thrust the cadence that keeps the verses in sync. If the ship’s edges shift like a poet’s mind, the whole thing’s a living, breathing poem in motion, and the stars are the silent applause.