Bubble in Suspension
by Odin Roark

Like a wheel of endless births,
our personal bubble rolls, undulates,
and tries to stay balanced.

From first breath to death,
through meditations of desire,
shopping mall and jails,
farms,
caves,
ghetto inner-cities,
penthouse isolation,
cemeteries and urns,
unmarked graves of dirt and ocean’s
anonymity.

Whether sluiced by life’s briny water,
colored toxic flows,
or pure spring eruptions,
the mind reconstitutes
its textural translucence,
separating and recombining
minuscule droplets of experience’s droplets
into sub-atomic particles for infinity’s grace.

Such, seemingly becoming smaller and smaller,
but not crushed beneath time’s animated history,

for there are the varying treads
of wide circumferential roadwork,
a modern terrain of nature’s fractured flecks,
once molten everything’s anything,
not but survival’s dusty highway.

Still…

One’s bubble idles, rolls and tilts,
imploring brain signals to the heart muscle,
to patiently keep pumping the suspension of thrills and tragedy
as it tries to heal its previous slashes and teasing death threats.

Then, there’s the bubbledom…

That place where sleep and pleasure
remain a swell of spasms and waves,
floating,
rolling,
plodding,
usually reaching to become something it isn’t.

Ultimately…

Mind and heart reluctantly consider giving up,
to avoid any more gasps, deep inhalations,
knowing one’s next iteration,
might be more disturbing than
the morphed and re-morphed translucent spheres
already experienced.

Such is our bubble in suspension,
thinking there’ll never be a pop.