Burning rust on the horizon I settle on the bottom of the ocean floor,listening to fish folk stories that yearned to taste the blues of the sky. Dead skeletons of a dead fish lay on the shore, done with all the flipping and flopping, he lay there with his mouth open. Like he had begged for the ocean to take him back. But, it didn’t. It didn’t like most do. Do dead fish have a heaven or hell? Do they have a bucket list or some type of story to tell. Or do they end up like a washed up trick choking depths of unseens sights? Did he wonder what the sky tastes like or did get sick from all the salt in the sea life. Did bigger beasts of the seas put him up to a fight, or was he the one to stay far away from their sight. Has he seen the bottom of the ocean in all its glory, or just swam where the bubbles could rise. Did he swim along the great white sharks in circles or has he spoken to ancient eels from different tides? Has he hovered near sea turtles swimming on their backs for millenniums.
What to him was a mystery? A fish out of water, separated by land and sea.