Cold Fish Poem by Oleg Vorobyov

Man, should he be a fabulous fish,
As cold as blood staid in his veins,
With something which him curbs, restrains
And keeps him safe, protecting niche?

His pancake face of whiskered gills
And his amoebous, jelly mind
A jejune masquerade remind,
A set of bulging eyes and quills.

Man, does he live in a cauldron cold,
A watery realm of glass walls?
No ripples, no gales, no squalls
Disturb this unreceptive world.

Sometimes, myself, as cold as fish,
Feel and respond with no response,
In my reservoir ensconced
Partaking my cold, lonely dish.