Siren’s Sonnet - Hydrothermal Vents

The bottom of the ocean is supposed –

to be cold, not hot.

Like the frigid fermented potato juice,

heating my old man from the inside out.

The bottom of the ocean is supposed –

to be a barren wasteland, not a miracle of life.

Like the empty 2-inch poly bag,

on the floor of a bathroom.

The bottom of the ocean is supposed –

to be completely dark, not twinkling with bioluminescence.

Like the difficulties between distinguishing

Hallucinations and reality.

Where instead of the leave of trees harvesting the sunlight,

microbial mats tipple toxic chemicals.

Where blockbuster aliens are teddy bears,

compared to the life down here.

Shimmering shadow monsters,

that a subconscious couldn’t even create.