Leaves settling against a transparent wall
Strips of gold and white swam, from winter to fall.
The voices would often bicker, quarrel and fight,
But the ripples in the water promised hope and delight.
Throw pellets, ask why fish needed 'air'
Giggle at their curled moustaches, in contrast with their fair
Give them titles and names, stories and goals,
Dip fingers in green, trying to create non existent holes.
Years passed and my pond became nothing but decay
And lips still throw insults, even as I lay,
Mosquitoes and their infants, wriggling in my watery home
But from finger to lip I decided, 'The fishes will once more roam.'
A young adult! I could have been mocked
At how in amazement, I stared; in a plastic bag they rocked.
Childhood flooded in, as I imitated their gaping lips,
I followed their words, and measured them from tip.
I set them down and with pride I looked,
As they counted their freedom, and knew they were not hooked.
They at last together, set to the deep,
and only at the sound of pellets, would they often leap.
The arguments grew colder and the hisses relentless
But I carried on feeding and cleaning, proving selflessness.
Yet to my horror, and beyond my control,
The fishes' paces grew slow, turned barely to crawl.
Panic and fear tightened my throat
At the thought limp bodies will cast and float.
But still the war carried on without a halt,
The inner sanctum of peace, turned into an untouched vault.
A week passed, and I sat beside arched spines.
Strips of pond **** carved in feeble lines.
Their marble eyes, glazed with question.
Their lungs stained with emerald resignation.
The clash continued even as I held,
One slick body of scratched brass and felt,
for a moment a weak patter of frail heart beat
saying, "This is your tale," then a whisper: "Your greatest defeat."
- N. C.
Aug 6, 2010
Aug 6, 2010 at 7:01 AM UTC
Leaves settling against a transparent wall
Strips of gold and white swam, from winter to fall.
The voices would often bicker, quarrel and fight,
But the ripples in the water promised hope and delight.
Throw pellets, ask why fish needed 'air'
Giggle at their curled moustaches, in contrast with their fair
Give them titles and names, stories and goals,
Dip fingers in green, trying to create non existent holes.
Years passed and my pond became nothing but decay
And lips still throw insults, even as I lay,
Mosquitoes and their infants, wriggling in my watery home
But from finger to lip I decided, 'The fishes will once more roam.'
A young adult! I could have been mocked
At how in amazement, I stared; in a plastic bag they rocked.
Childhood flooded in, as I imitated their gaping lips,
I followed their words, and measured them from tip.
I set them down and with pride I looked,
As they counted their freedom, and knew they were not hooked.
They at last together, set to the deep,
and only at the sound of pellets, would they often leap.
The arguments grew colder and the hisses relentless
But I carried on feeding and cleaning, proving selflessness.
Yet to my horror, and beyond my control,
The fishes' paces grew slow, turned barely to crawl.
Panic and fear tightened my throat
At the thought limp bodies will cast and float.
But still the war carried on without a halt,
The inner sanctum of peace, turned into an untouched vault.
A week passed, and I sat beside arched spines.
Strips of pond **** carved in feeble lines.
Their marble eyes, glazed with question.
Their lungs stained with emerald resignation.
The clash continued even as I held,
One slick body of scratched brass and felt,
for a moment a weak patter of frail heart beat
saying, "This is your tale," then a whisper: "Your greatest defeat."
- N. C.
