These sacks of air - constricting - filling with water.
These moving branches - turning blue and cold.
This blob of fat and neurons - pressure building.
These survalence cameras - now not so bold.
Pull me out, pull me out - I'm so cold.
The roots flowing through me - slowing, stopping.
The straw once silky - dull - to the bottom, flopping.
The fog horn now silent - no echo
Down, down, dropping like lead - I go.
Pull me out, pull me out - but I rest - below.
©dannibug
D