The Race of the Goldfish
In a bowl, round as time, they wait—
Gold flickers poised at the water’s gate.
No crowd, clapping no need for cheer,
Just glassy silence, crystal-clear.
They dart with pomp, they twist with pride,
Each fin a flag, each turn a stride.
A race of loops, of lazy swerves,
A game of chance, not sharpened nerves.
No prize awaits the one ahead,
No crown, no laurel for the led.
Yet still they chase, and still they gleam,
Like coins dropped deep into a dream.
Around, around, the world is small—
But to them, it is the all.
And isn’t that the race we run?
No end, no judge, just laps for fun.
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️
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Comments (3)
Yes..no prize 🏆 no crown 👑..but we keep raising because it is our passion 😍 How wonderful this is.
Such a fascinating poem and exceptional writing skills that you have shown.Good luck.
Nice one