I creep through clouds without a sound, A giant ghost above the ground. I’m full of air, yet made to fly, What am I drifting through the sky?

I drift above the world without wings, held aloft by what is lighter than the air around me. My frame is long and rigid, a quiet giant shaped by gas and metal. Crowds look up as I pass, slow enough to study, large enough to remember. I am neither plane nor balloon, yet something between the two. What am I?

Beastly leviathan from thunderous waves, crashing and thrashing sends men to their graves. Through day into night the lurid white whale writhes and contorts to no avail. By grit and resolve the monster is slain, but what kind of rod was thrown again?

The first one was the most practical of the seven wonders of the ancient world. Located in Alexandria, Egypt, it used mirrors to reflect light. Alternatively, a residence that is not serious.

No locks, no bars. I was built to imprison. No forks, no dead ends, yet you swear you’re lost. My prisoner shared blood with my creator, and a thread, not a key, was all escape cost. I live inside your skull in chambers carved from bone. Disturb me there and solid ground becomes unknown. Lay me flat in gardens and I’ll quiet every war your restless mind has waged. I am what you walk me for. Don’t call me by my cousin’s name, he offers you a choice. I give you only one way in. One way out. One voice.