It doesn’t take long for a bubble,
Just yesterday freely soaring in the pink air,
To fall and land atop a pin.
So far, it hasn’t broken.
But it’s caught — in a balancing act–
Swaying with the rhythms of anxious breath,
High above the crowds below.
Unable to be released,
It discovers itself a prisoner to the claw
That keeps a gently fierce hold
On the iridescent skin.
With the undercurrents below in the crowds.
Will it fall?
Will it break?
Will it be free again?
Precariously swaying with the rhythms of anxious breath
High above the crowds below,
While everyone waits.
And waits. . .