Turning Madness Into Flowers #1

If my sorrow were deeper I'd be, along with you, under the ocean's floor; but today I learn that the oil that pools beneath the ocean floor is essence residue remains of all our relations all our ancestors who have died and turned to oil without our witness eons ago. We've always belonged to them. Speaking for you, hanging, weeping, over the water's edge as well as for myself. It is our grief heavy, relentless, trudging us, however resistant, to the decaying and rotten bottom of things: our grief bringing us home.