Limbo of the Lost
We are stuck between nowhere and somewhere—
where the earth’s true north and magnetic north align.
Reapers reach out to us from beyond
the apexes of Miami, Puerto Rico, and Bermuda,
but we are trapped in this section of the Atlantic—
the one that swallows ships and planes
and spits the souls back out.
Some of us heard the squeals of the wild pigs
and calls of the cahow birds from the devil’s islands,
or saw the erratic compass readings
and the great flame of fire that crashed into the sea.
Some of us felt the scales of fate tipping in favour
of the creature lurking in the deep marine trenches.
And none of us could stay grounded in the cosmos
from those who don’t follow intergalactic laws.
Nor could we resist the pull of crystal energies
from a lost city beneath the saline currents.
Now we are ethereal fragments in deadly calm waters—
mysteries hidden inside rogue waves and waterspouts,
desperate to erupt like methane gas bubbles.
But our voices are lost along the treacherous stretches of reefs,
so our warnings are like a radio distress signal that never was.
We are relics, with no trace of existence,
arrested to a harrowing patch of ocean—
trapped inside a fog that won’t let go.
The sapphire surface hums with mystery
as it waits for the next voyager to arrive—
disorientating them as they fly overhead
and blink from radar screens
or drowning them in another shipwreck secret.
Then we reach out and grasp them
from within our triangular prison
and they disappear.
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