There is no “mistaken identity” when White sharks eat our lineaments:
Migrating wild and free across silent open oceans without caring sentiments
With black blue eyes that belie a knowledge that the dead can swim through currents beyond description where the lateral lines coalesce with sensory application,
as each thrashing
thrashing of jaw and tail
Led to wounds now gashing:
bright red plume, spilled over watery grave like bordeaux
And what I now know is neither wrong nor right.
The predatory instinct inside the White shark is a relentless, amoral killer,
not unlike the darkest part of the darkest night.
(Enter: buzz of search plane that keeps flying away, out of sight)
“No object is mysterious. The mystery is perception.” – Elizabeth Bowen