Did you hear the one
about
the boy in the bubble?
He coming bringing joy
and bearing
trouble:
he saw visions of
perfection
but left mounds
of rubble.
Rome was slow to be built
and quick
to be burned;
such excess can be fitted
in the
tiniest urn,
and the wheat
in the field
dries to stubble.
‘Quick my boy, run!’
your hot brain
shouts at you
but your skull stays
heavy - be still,
stay true.
Boy, oh boy,
it’s hard, getting
harder.
The fruit’s rotting in
the orchard, there’s
nothing
in the larder.
‘Harder! Try harder!’
demand
the dead.
‘Burst that bubble.
It’s the one in
your head.’
Could you lend me a blade,
could you strike me
a fire?
Could you offer a shoulder,
boost me up
higher?
I tire.
I’m trying, I’m trying.
It will all work out
for the best.
I’ll keep fighting on
like I’m fighting
for rest.
All my life I’ve been a bubble
blown hither
and thither,
a flimsy coat of film
surrounding a pocket
of air,
for any odious mouth
to pass on
and make quiver
something you make out
that’s not
really there.
Now it’s time to break
the shivering walls of this cell
I’ve made my home.
It’s empty here, though filled
with comforts, and it’s time
all that was gone.
