In the ocean's name, where silence brews,
Irony calls from a whispering tide.
Layers upon layers of tales long past,
Beneath currents no man has dared view.
Were not the fish dreamers too,
Swimming through shadowed realms of dark?
Their fins dance, in rhythm to quiet songs,
Echoing the static's hidden spark.
A kelp forest, a cathedral of slow-time,
Stands resolute against unvoiced laughter.
Within, a crusted carapace of iron,
Reflects the calm chaos of waters after.
Oh to be a ripple in their grand voyage,
Carried onward by unseen steers.
How they murmur, the abyss's irony,
In a language only the heart hears.