BURST

Death blows bubbles in a field, As the child chases a butterfly: Human things. ... I wonder, In the long lesson, What measure of freedom is possible? What do we think we know? Is it true, the love we give is eternal? That no hurt can harm its infinity? And still, We must die often and much, As an adaptive mulch, Ripe and maturing. Is this what evolution demands? Long corridors and Labyrinthian design, Formidable structures and Unyielding confines; Within majestic illusion, life relies upon farce. Forever must be near here, Beside where we built comfort’s constraints, Beneath industries that secure subsection’s chains, Is our holy Holy lost in tedium? Or necessarily strung to fragility’s tragic comedy? I’ve blown enough bubbles in my life to know they all burst. From my book “Who needs poetry?” Available on Amazon. Free on Kindle Unlimited. Should you need it.