Some of us aren’t intended for ascension,
Not designed to have our curses lifted
Or meant to have our burdens lightened.
We need the crushing weight of the deep
Like a gushing wound needs a tourniquet—
It is familiar pressure that keeps us intact.
But we are trapped by benthic trawlers,
Pulled from the midnight zone
And blinded by an alien sun—
As you draw us up, attempting redemption,
We explode, bursting like abyssal ocean creatures
Dragged to death’s salvation by missionaries of
photosynthesis.
