Salvage

There will come a time
In future lines of
Epic poetry
Where scientists extract
Ego from its usurping
Residence, its hijacked
Flying palaces,
Like a dark diamond
Stolen from the mines
Of enlightenment,
As a scratched diadem
Snatched from
The scalp leaves
A ring in the skin
Of a sleeping king,
It struggles and
Clings as octupeses
With beak and tongue
Swallow their prey
Somewhere beneath
The unfathomable dreams
In plankton and sea-bream,
Sea-bream more commonly
Known as pomfret.

Deeper still, like
A hoarder of
Fuselages on the
Ocean bed,
Broken in three,
Transponders and
Navigational wingtip
Lights emitting
Dimly and contrary
To the properties
Of flight,
It struggled and
Flailed wildly
As it surfaced
Into Antarctic
Sunbeams up from its
Subhaemadural
Dominion,
Installed in
A museum for captured
Catalogued
Unnecessary parts,
Sanctioned for the
Disasters, there’s no
Comfort for the visitors
Who queue to see the
Surprising, underwhelming
Size of that dark mass,
Displayed in
A repurposed
Unguentarium,
The scientists wore hazmats,
The scientists are poets
Who will one day enscribe
Definitions in gold plaques,
That blotch-bead preserved in
The amber-aspic victories
Of the bodhisattvas.