How a bubble burst

A word starts to form, a little bubble, fragile, transient…
Myriad colours dance on its surface,
The brilliant orange swirls into ominous black,
They snake around, trying to form something…
What is it? A question, a smile, a caress?
The bubble floats, silent, gentle…
But those colours, they are not still…
Restless, they dance around…
As if trying to find something…
What? An answer? A touch? Absolution?
There’s another colour here,
Deep red, like blood…
Is the word bleeding?
Red seeps across the bubble…
Till all the colours disappear into it…
The bubble trembles…
As if trying to scream…
But there’s no sound…
The wind tosses the bubble around…
The red deepens….
The trembling is more urgent….
But, no sound…
Drifting, the bubble seeks shelter…
There’s something nearby, warm, it seems, protective…
It drifts, weakly, it’s crimson now…
It drifts, towards that shelter…
And then comes the touch, but it is a trifle too hard…
The crimson spurts out…
What did it touch? Didn’t it look protective?
There are a few red drops on the cemented pavement…
The bubble? Its no more…
But, there was no sound…
The colours have gone…
There’s no bubble…
It burst with the touch it wanted so much…
Around it, everything goes on, as before…
That’s as it should be, for there was no sound…

When

When did trust become such a joke?
When was it ripped out of a pair of wide eyes
To be cast away into the roadside dust?
When did faith become madness?
When did blood thin down?
When did cowardice become logic?
When did the heart become just a pump?
When did conscience become just a word?
When did companionship become drunken stupor?
When did love become a one night stand?
When?

The Teacher

The wizened old teacher has his own ways…
His rasping voice, his gnarled hands…
They are beautiful….
His fiery glance drips with tenderness….
His touch is gentle in its roughness…
I recoil from his anger, to rest on his lap…
He lets me catch my breath
And shakes me up yet again…
There’s more, he whispers…
He makes me taste the poison ivy
Then pours nectar down my throat…
He shoves me into the dark
And leads me into the light….
This wizened old teacher they call life…
He hammers my soul,
Chisels my heart…
I am his sculpture,
He is my nemesis….