What could be more delicate?
A thin globe of liquid hope,
Held together in an equilibrium dance
Of pressure, both from inside and outside.
Some last an unbelievable eternity,
Others barely leave the magic wand.
An odd mix of sadness and anticipation
Comes with the destruction of each.
Sometimes the glistening shell
Cracks of its own accord,
Releasing a shower of leftover spray
Covering all those in the path.
For most, a myriad of pointing fingers
Causes the gleeful mayhem.
The chorus of “more, more”
Rings in the ears of those watching
Until the attention turns away
And interest flees to the next game.
Pocket change replenishes
The soapy supply, yet the children,
And the child-like, hoard it as gold.
An irrational fear of bubbles
Is sadly created by dipping into
An insatiable love of liquidity.