You are a tourist trap, a ghost town populated not by ghosts, but by folks from the Midwest and their sticky-fingered children. You aren't the mine disaster you claim to be. You are a scheme.
In dreams I dive right in. The sunken ship stuck in my subconscious is explored for either treasure, dinner, or both. Hopefully both. Diving builds up an appetite and I am hungry for what is lost. Jesus, walking above me, better be ready for when my oxygen tank fails. Can Jesus fry a fish? First things first; let me find a bait.
There are pearls around your neck that came from an aphrodisiac. The fact that you wore your best tonight didn't escape me. I tried gliding across your shoulders, but sank into your collarbone. What's the point in paddling when drowning will wake you up?
The real ghosts haven't been excavated yet. The real ghosts float to a surface I haven't seen. The dead cells on your skin are more waterproof than mine.