Words tumble in
And roll right back
Down to the deep.

Time has not taught
Not to fight
Or to flail.

Pressure rises,
Letters and symbols — screaming silence
That says, “Succumb. Succumb at last.”

Fluid, but not flexible,
Lost to all of it —
Current and trade wind,

Anything that might
Fill a sail,
Or bring a ship safe to port.

Become sunken treasure —
Sought by outlaws
And vagabonds.

That rare territory —

Perpetual motion
Beneath the still-seeming surface.
Unsettled, but unbound and open,

Waiting for one —
Hawk-eyed —

Curious enough
To cut a path
Straight to the bottom,

Called onward
By lights
Green and gold,

One who would penetrate
Ancient, murky tides,
To drag this shipwreck sunward again.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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