Diver Myths

I

Before all else
there is water—
from which to fish
for flowers and failure.
What hope, to find
the handful of earth
that steadies. That
grows into rocks
and coastal shelves.
At what particular
point to hold our
breath—there, only
at the deepest.

Of this we are certain.

All beginnings must emanate
from the depths.

II

At the end
we search for reasons
subterranean.
The origin of the apocalypse,
as it were. The point at which
the erosion commenced.
If it exists.
Perhaps, from the moment
of inception, all is
diminishment.

We play god.

Conjuring worlds before
we were created. Examining
the oceans for evidence
of how we began.
It will take years to sort
and sift through the sand,
excavating fossils of ourselves.

You see, it is only
through magic that we
transpired.
That, and sheer, blind, wilful belief.
This is where we came from,
and will continue.
Until someone ― you or I ―
proves we are an
impossibility.
Despite the sanctioning
of mythology, it isn’t believable
for us to exist.

And so we slough them
back into the ocean ― promises,
tea cups, burnt firewood, walks ―
where they sink
silent as the shadow of birds,
falling between stones,
waiting to be resurrected in someone
else’s dream.

 

Published at The Sunflower Collective

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