Bubbles

Lost, lonely, out of touch.

Pockets of air don’t offer much.
Permeable membranes live and grow,
Fueled by speed so they might slow.
A racing heart goes rapid quick,
Effervescent politic.
Our bubbles have a single fate,
Which is to pop, exterminate.
Responding to the booming bust
Soapy textures overflow with lust.
For bubbles live and die each day
Essentially caused by TOO MUCH PLAY.
And so I have this island view,
My personal bubble, my thoughts subdued.
Where does one go to find escape?
Into the Cave of PROCRASTINATE.
Fizzing, frothing, foamy eyes
Paint conclusions ambivalent,
Disguised.
Thus it goes and go it shall,
This bubbly existence, this femme fatale.