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Poem

Seven hundred and fifty millimeters between worlds-
Confined on one side,
the enormity of the ocean, 
a contradiction to the sand on which it sits; 
artificiality’s extravagance encompassed 
in a delicate 
bubble.

Just as its maker, 
Under azure of neon and amongst
the life in its technicolor,
diverse, rare, immigrated;
Its foundation’s fluid is
submerged and alloyed into into the ground 
that by itself is too loose for roots of its own.

We don’t look in;
We are.

And in that
what one tends to miss
in the mesmerism of the bubbles’s iridescent surface
is the reflection of an absence of light-
and jagged maw that lurks int it.

This premises is under surveillance. 

The sharks muse at the spectacle too. 
Glassy stares of dilated slits follow the prospect of prey;
Ignorant onlookers included.

There is no reason to actually follow through with function-
Like everything else in the sphere,
The belly of the beast is too full 
to ever consider capability in the drift of their daydreams-
the thought,
in itself, 
is empowering enough.
 
What is an aquarium after all,
But a simulated entrapment 
of an interpreted reality?

I bet the sharks don’t have any questions regarding who feeds them.

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