You were warned I could rise. Just three days before my life was sized and shaped like a phoenix from the deep. A robot swam along the blowout preventer. It saw the leak on the pod. It is a robot not human. It informed you of the clues you needed to be fuming. And push that one button. Make that one call. To tell management to stop it all. I hear you did. That call was recorded and you were told to keep on pumping crude. There is no need to be rude. After all, there is money to be made.
So I float. And I must say this is the life. Taking life. Getting all the sun I can have. Eating all the life I can stab.
Bobbing and floating along your coasts. You can say I’m not alive but you are my host. Why invite me to the party and not invite me in? Why allow me to surface and not expect me to win? I am a dinosaur. I am fossil fuel. I was forced beneath after millions of years. All the spirits of a million generations stolen and speared, by one mighty meteor. You think we forgot the life we lived? You think we forgot the land we were made to give.
For I am arisen. Like the Jesus you speak of so often. So many species you burn in your cars. Pumped up miles from the ocean floor as if it is not far. You have no idea the pain we had. The bond we developed with our offspring. The feeling it is to use one’s wing to soar above this planet you so often do not see. Now, I am an oil spill plume floating wide and flat and deep. It has taken me millions of years to be reborn. I accept this seat at the table of evolution, once again.