Mr. Bubble

In shifting rainbow hues, the possible future
Seen on a shiny, transparent screen.
Shifting, then steady as we float along,
Colors intensify; imagined form is found.
Edges, spikes and pins, their gleam no longer seen,
Not even the one – bubble bound.
With a horrid grin of malicious glee,
The worm-ridden, self-infected,
Dream-killer lunges.
He pricks the beautiful, the delicate, the free.
Then gloats at the ease of his bubble – pricking.
The bubble rider, now wet and cold, plunges to the
Dream-death implicit in – the pinprick’s
Terminal black hole.

–LE