While washing tarnished hands;
The waters run black, spiraling down
An even darker abyss.
Call it a drain.
Fitting for the moment just
Before the tub empties
And the dejected gargle rings out.
All hope and sense of a future drained;
Never to escape the tomb that is this earth.
Dirt and rock; rock that fuel fire
Paves the way to opportunity
But not worth the blood it takes
To retrieve it.

Whose folly? Whose fault?
We are now stunted, brought to
A sudden and violent halt.
Brings to mind one of many
Bad clichés about eggs;
Numerical or transportation.

Is that how they felt?
Cracked, spilling themselves
But still not able to stain
The black gold, the treasure’s of the deep.
Not caved in, but bottoms up
Digging deep enough to reverse gravity

Calling out;
“That was our livelihood
          those where their lives
   neither will return, neither could survive.”