Below the depths of sunken ships,

Beyond the light of some eclipse

There’s no control, gone are grips.

The mute are spitting Freudian slips.

Below the graves of soldiers dead

Sharply slain with shards of lead;

Sleeping still, a loved one lost;

She didn’t sleep, she turned and tossed.

Below the mounds of worlds past

Was once the new and now the last.

Beyond the mist into the dusk

The sound of nothing, the smell of musk.

Below my pencil, hard to find

Just another errant line.

Thoughts conceived, thoughts are dead,

Sharply slain with shards of lead.

—Brian Geisler