There's no one in this fish bowl that speaks my language.
I have no chance of escape.
Lodged in the fourth circle, I didn't want to be here,
with the crass, cannibal cranes.
So I claw for hours against the glass. It's unmanageable
the observer's breath, that leaves a fog impression
against the bustling tank.
And I'm frantic, every single night. Like a cursed plane,
like a witch in flight. I am lucid in the cage; I wield insubstantial weight.
Toss another copper flake on the water's surface.
I will clamor for sustenance, or I'll let my body sink into the corner--
the plecostomus that cleanses the worthless space.
Still the toxins accumulate.
I am wedded to the bottom. On the surface is where I falter.
Where the cruel and empty vessels rip apart my hull.
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