The black gold oozes, rich as Croesus, from ancient ferns, leaking aeons everywhere. Time spreading out, bursting forth, rising in inky geysers. We bottle it in tankers, sending it forth into a world thirsty for diesel, choking on its own compacted addiction.
But here, deep under the derricks, where the sound of pistons cannot reach, the blackness is softly dark and quietly blanketing the rocks, soothing them to sleep. Trickling Texan treacle treasure, the compost of centuries. What legacy shall our laying down of death sow, spread on the mantle of earth? Will our ground bones and cremated dust one day be dug out, sparkling and true, given new life as fossil fuel? How we shall laugh, looking down from the stars!
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016
Photo from morguefile.com