Like a fish out of water (Poem)
Pots call out to the kettle (,) black
froth boiling at the mouth
as the rivers kettle of fish
all end up hopelessly lost
in hot water pans, going to pot.
To a T, we are what? ‘til the end, floating,
carrying questions in streams we can’t see,
believing our presence with the current, devotion
until an ocean of realisation, we cannot flee.
Alas! I hate to be the fish out of water
although the waterfall is imminent
clogged up, bogged down like lavatories
ordered about until out of order
to have ever thought, we swam with streams,
wishing on wells with a 50pence piece
a well wishers dream, until time apportions
water to steam, it seems we were destined to be…
sleeping with the fishes.