Swept up in a sea of nets, discarded, flapping, drowning in air.
Waiting to be landed, dashed upon the dock, waiting to be dressed and dished, fed up, on the menu to fill the mouths of men.
Makes me think before I eat, how it must feel, to be a captured fish.
I don't know how long it takes them to expire.
Think it must must dreadful, to be a fish, captured in a trawlers net.
With thousands of wriggling soul mates, and perhaps the cod father too, not many left, only a few.
Morals aside, I'm afraid, I love their taste.
(C) LIVVI