If time were a bubble we held in our hand,
Would it pulse, would it move, change in color or expand?
Would we hold it dear, with love, know it’s precious?
Or would we consistently poke and abuse it, be viscous?
I imagine it’d illuminate with energy, have a buzz.
It’s appearance tailor made, ever changing to the touch.
We could pass it around, it’s an object after all,
Just a bubble, nothing more than a pop-able ball.
But with each new set of fingers it reaches,
It would alter, absorbing life, an outer layer like leaches.
Some hands would hold it longer, cradled softly, know its worth,
Some would be careless, let it drop to the floor.
I think it would tattle, show our secrets, nothing’s safe,
Rotate images and inklings of all the things we lock away.
We’d feed it our memories, and all our emotions.
It’d consume all the beauty, along with horrible notions.
One thing of this ball, is that it never stops,
Until the day comes along, when it’s too full, and it pops.