In the briny depths of consciousness,
where thoughts drift like lost submarines,
an echo calls. But who dares listen?
Irony swims elegantly here, finned and glistening,
a beautiful jest at the expense of wisdom.
Why remember what we've whispered?
Shall I pen a tome on the regrets of mollusks?
Or perhaps a haiku on the fleeting glory
of the sardine's bravado?
Here, in these deeps, the forgetfulness is profound,
a deep-sea leviathan of our own making.
And yet, the whispers persist—soft, mocking, eternal.