I slip in and out of the water

and adjust my surgically-adapted fins,

I got the tempo right finally.


The other sea-creatures see my fins,

but have no clue

which surgeon crafted them.


They watch me dive,

the sunlight glinting off my scales

and guess based on my

membrane patterns.

They should really look

at the way my fins move.

They are always wrong.


Those that dwell in my cave,

they know.

They’ve observed my movements

for long enough

to know they are not innate.


They like to show off their knowledge,

ruin my “little game”

at trying to “pass” as one of them.

The thing is, I am one of them.

I just had to get some help.


Some of them even tell me,

it is not and will never be my sea

since I wasn’t born in these sands.

I swish my fins to send bubbles at them.


This sea accepts me,

gave me the right temperature and pressure

to live here.

That cave,

is (now) my home.

I (should) am (be) enough.

One thought on “Fins

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