the bottom wasn’t the bottom
it never existed
it was just home,
the golden fish would tell stories
of a land bathed in light
kissed by soft air-
we huddled around her stories
of fulfilment and life,
we prayed to poseidon
to bring us;
bring us to the land of the free,
where goldy stayed-
away from the bottom.
the next day she was gone,
the we shuffled to an i
in silence.
Saint's Muse 