Fins churning,
golden colors flash.
A blink of a non-blinking eye
and its over.

Another life is snuffed out.

Where did the time go?
To reminisce, and flow?

Only the goldfish know

What its like to be locked up
in a glass-bubble cage
with no one to hear your cries of rage

a solitary pocket of innocent air
is the only thing to acknowledge
your shrieks of despair.

In this time of illusioned seclusion,
the goldfish can tell you what everything means.

You can't spend your days
living with the 'I wish...'
To squander your short life
for one little bit

of the greener grass.

The goldfish can tell you
and the goldfish knows well
htat the green grass is over,
your mirage will dispel.

But was it ever really there?
Do you ever stop to show that you care?

No, the humans live
but not live, exist
like the fish taht ends up
on the crystal-backed dish.

When you had that green grass
anohter meadow looked brighter
So you raced off in search of
htat perfect, sweet field.

But as you step out
in search of the sun
you're searching for life,
but it hasn't begun.

the goldfish will tell you
to stop, look, and feel
and open your eyes:
your facade isn't real.

That empty space
deep inside of your skin
comes from your desire
to be the crowd, and fit in.

Our wise old waterman will
tell you the truth
htat that empty space was filled,
sometime in your youth.

The filling you've lost
can't be replaced
It was there at one time,
it's this filling you've chased.

It can, however, be rearranged.

When your fin that you've tried
so hard to perfect
becomes snagged on delusions,
don't pause to regret.

Instead, your new paddle
is not qutie a hassle
but a beautiful, carefree
masterpiece of fine art.

So when you're chasing the sun
and that green-greenest grass
our tatttered teacher would tell you,
not unwisely,
to look to your past.
 
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