Struggle and Strive

STRIVE: Flutter

Engaged senses,

like hiccups through daily routines,

allow for gardens of thought in which

I can loiter within until the last flower opens

and the last bubble pops.

.

Opening eyes

with eyelashes that flutter as wings,

lifting off to new pedals,

revealing concealed irises,

are fruitless without reason to see.

.

Listening ears

tunneling deep,

twitching at echoes

too far within a soapy bubble's rubber

are nonsensical without purpose to sound.

.

Lithe fingertips

that feel the patterns

full of frozen floating foam in the air,

freezing shoots before they grow

are useless if only apt to the numb.

.

Tasting tongue

full of eager buds

that sprout and bloom

when ignited

means nothing if nutrients are void.

.

Curious nose

with caverns for flurries

of petunia pollen and squeaky clean,

non-toxics flying through the air

could care less with only rancid scents abroad.

.

Heart beats

that pulse rivers through a body

to jar awakening senses and

pull at thin soul strings

don't matter unless they're wanted.

.

Bubbles are the

pulsing enclosures,

keeping out the oxygen

those fragile soul strands

so need to breathe.

.

These bubbles built around

our wispy-walled worlds,

isolating feelings from actions,

turn bodies into suds and ash,

beautiful, wonderful spirits trapped inside.

.

It means that

kissing eyelashes closed

and cutting off sound, touch,

tongue and smell

positively alleviate life away.

.

They thought that the

terrified fluttering of their

heart beats, trapped in cages

didn't matter,

and that shatters me.

.

Every word you say,

every breath you take

has meaning!

I cry out.

But who will listen?

.

Too many have

turned blind eyes, deaf ears,

numb fingers, tasteless tongues

and senseless noses

so soon.

.

Wretched bubbles close in,

tightening vines around their necks,

with no yield, they feel, leaving them

suffocating.

How long before we all--

.

Pop!