I’m like a coelacanth,
A fossil, which is neither a vestige,
Or a freak of nature, a rare presence
In a dead pool of sibling species.
Just like this ancient fish, Austen days
Are still around, like the 14th of February,
Where men become rose carriers,
The day when fossils become relevant,
In a world that rides on a digital wave,
A world of collect-me-nots,
Just buttons and keys, lots of them,
That get pressed over and over
Unlike human lips, the analogs,
That are just a press away, from affirmation.
The romantics, they live far from sight,
At the very bottom, away from the crowd,
Existing not on contingencies, like the rest,
Only on the staple that slowly pines away,
On the bottom of an ocean,
That drifts both in current and evolution.
Left behind by time, we become
Our own heroes, a love that needs rescue,
From that sieve, selection is.
Carved out of ancient tissue, Coelacanths,
Stay, looking as much historical,
As irrelevant, and as food for thought,
A fish that defies everything in gills,
A riddle of biology, a tetrapod wannabe,
And yet a fishy fish, a modern-day sphinx
Searching for Oedipus, to demystify
The myth of a fossil.
Like how sphinxes,
Guard those entry points of evolution,
Those missing links, those incomplete records,
Of how beings, that walk on 4,3 or 2 feet,
Made the switch from fish, to eventually become man.
The feet that groped for earth
And the lungs that sought air to breathe,
And the tetrapod that perhaps crawled
Out of a coelacanth skin. What ultimately became man,
Who feels the caress of love, on baby hands and feet,
Who makes earth-shattering love, while on 2 feet,
And remembers vividly and in detail,
The folly of having loved once,
When tottering with a cane,
On his three heels.