Two and a half miles below the surface of the ocean,
far beyond depths that light can pierce 
where the water’s weight can crush a human
What beckons?

What beckoned us to lower Argo, a twelve foot robot, angular 
with cameras and sonar to probe the blackness of the ocean floor
to open doors to the Titanic, seventy years after it had sunk?
A famous staircase flows towards a crystal ballroom -
eerie shots of a lightless silence, uncorrupted by time.

On the surface, Mind is a sea of plastic, sun-pierced into bits
a soup, cloudy with floating debris.
Sub-surface, more debris – 
more plastic, cans, rope, net, styrofoam, 
paper, cloth, glass, ceramic, rubber, a shoe 
among the ocean’s moving weed and driftwood.

The sun reaches here but carelessly, fragments feel freer. 
Currents crash, a gyre forms trapping fragments in its whorl
the centre is calm, observes the fragments break, released.

But what beckons the diver to go deeper?
Where waters are dark, cold and stable; 
oxygen low and all decay held at bay.
Where things are the way they are.
No individual, no observer.
Where Silence is King.
What beckons?