As a flitting dart of orange, barely seen,
who rots in slumber, blocked from verity.
With mirrors and sharp corners on all sides,
He can't see through his endless window pain.
So desperate to escape, he lost all hope,
and turned away from bliss and all he sought.
He joined a school of fish to stay afloat,
and traded loneliness for tedium.
And thus his scales did fade and thoughts did rot;
he brooded in ennui and seemed but dead.
With years of being stuffed and nullified,
the hand of age plucked him from his small home
and dropped him in the porcelain unknown,
Half dead, he slammed through rusting murky ducts,
to find the endless blue of nameless deep.
Around him rushed strange colors, never seen,
so distant from the square life he had lived.
The tank left his mind blinded, bleached, and deaf,
so unprepared for this world of rare souls.
He looks down at his faded snowflake scales,
and thinks of what he was, but now is not.
So we now gladly enter senior year,
restlessly waiting to be flushed.