Baby, baby, you’ll be fine
and I’ll be fine and they’ll be fine
when a bubble of belief pop-pops
and lies like a fallen leaf
on the ground of an illusion.
It takes a time before the stretch
and blow-up of the truth
rebels and fights against
normal ignorance
but, picky-picky, no big bang
just planned obsolescence
of what the bubble holds.
Knives and swords and weapon things,
dress-up tools for life’s decrees,
an ineffective means
of bursting a belief
and the mind, my powerhouse,
scuttles forward then retreats
because too slow I miss the twist
and lose its show of force.
And that leaves me, the ignorant,
to bend, retrieve, assimilate,
bit by bit each drop of truth
but I lose the intricacies,
bend when I should stretch
and vice versa till I sit
immovable and comfortable
within a bubble, see?
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