Diving, head whole into a snowy sink,
Filled to its lips with icy sharp water,
Severing all connections, the ringing phone and endless messages,
Slicing the world’s throat, ending its constant shouting:
The incessant drone.
Sometimes, I have plunged far and low,
Into this private arctic lake of mine,
The porcelain bed is cool and hard,
But it lets me think, enter my mind.
Down below, at my greater depths, my ears catch cries,
Of a lonely whale.
His call, shrill and sad, from his mighty lungs and hungry heart.
Confused as a stranger by his own kind, his own mother,
the ocean swallows up his tears:
So alone he floats, at his greatest depth,
Where light reaches its final end.
Although we wear very different skin,
I know both the whale and I understand,
Each other better than our respective kin.
Our words are lost to our senses,
But our hearts find each other,
Knowing we are one, we are the same.
Each time I raise my heavy head,
The rampant noise floods into me,
With air from gasping breaths.
The white bowl always seems to wear blotches of red,
And I wonder, every time I pull the plug,
If the whale might meet the end,
But I hear it’s pleas, it’s calls,
Each time I dive
Photo credit: Pixabay.com