There's no one in this fish bowl that speaks my language. 
I have no chance of escape. 
Lodged in the fourth circle, I didn't want to be here, 
with the crass, cannibal cranes. 
So I claw for hours against the glass. It's unmanageable 
the observer's breath, that leaves a fog impression 
against the bustling tank. 
And I'm frantic, every single night. Like a cursed plane, 
like a witch in flight. I am lucid in the cage; I wield insubstantial weight. 
Toss another copper flake on the water's surface. 
I will clamor for sustenance, or I'll let my body sink into the corner-- 
the plecostomus that cleanses the worthless space. 
Still the toxins accumulate. 
I am wedded to the bottom. On the surface is where I falter. 
Where the [bad word] and empty vessels rip apart my hull.