Somewhere under layers of chaos,
Shrouded by Poseidon’s depths,
And preserved not on principle,
But under the chill of circumstance.
To know the pressure and the cold,
And the sand swirls and the eddies,
Yet not know where one lies.
To float, mingling with seaweed, sand,
and the fish that swim,
The drifting bits of barnacles,
and detritus of the ocean’s depths,
That which suspends, bobs, wanders, and drifts
With the only force it knows,
Only to settle in the dark, cold absurdity of the sea.