Within our little bubbles we create a cozy world
of safety first — our unlived dreams suspended
on a thread of fisher’s line, outside, untouchable
yet visible through blurred astringent visioncy.
Those bubbles never burst unless, with fluentish
alacrity, we wonder what it would be like to float
out there & cut the dreamly cords with bright new
hands, delighting in the way their fingers work.
Bubbles round us. Bubbles too within. Betrayed
by Maya’s loud chimeric patterns, seizure’s
foaming bubbles from our easy mouths pile up
around us like an epileptic accident unchained.
So here I sit with latent tears, all fears dissolved,
including fear of death (for what do those already
dead have still to fear?) and in the paleness here
I sense a light which sucks me skywards infantly.
Please dream me very brightly, said I to that light
(the hunger and the thirst in me for her was more
than I can cleanly write) and bowed my forehead
to the floor like Knights of old before their Queen.
And now, in limbo here, I’m well beyond the point
of no return (though going back is not a choice).
I hover on the precipice which everyone will meet
one day when fading lines and flashing mem’ries
sparkle somewhere well behind their sunken eyes.
No flying suit have I, or safety net, nor any bubbles
anymore. For I have burst them every one to get to
where I am [which is not where I am at all] then fall.
© Alan Morrison, 2016