A Poem a Day (722): The bubble

 
The bubble
 
There exists a window without a view
upon a world that does not exist anymore,
a cyan cast of faces adrift on breeze,
strokes of cirrus without sentence.
 
We are as time shifts and steals,
recalls echoes without shields,
swords that cut without a bitter edge,
the taken with nothing to take.
 
Shadows drizzle a lake without encumbrance,
and we drift out of perspective.
 
And so there is a window that once held a view,
a reason to discard all mockery,
a vision of a self not yet lived.
 
The watcher stepped inside himself,
out of himself, as others got things wrong,
but even he could not live forever.
 
We gaze back, all measured out,
build a wall against an invisible army.
You don’t know the drill, the phrasing,
and we all melt in welcome heat.
 
A drum roll without a crescendo
turns in echoes of fortitude, smoothed
out without discipline or order.
 
It just finds an alternate way of being
in this traffic of organised sound.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, August 14, 2025