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The bubble is made of
water and soap and oily rainbows,
in a place where sadness is felt from afar.
The bubble is delicately, dangerously
impervious.

The novel is made of
words smoothed over cultured paper,
my name embossed in gold on the cover.
The novel could be brilliant, but
for now it's eeked out one phrase at a time.

When is the bubble going to pop,
the novel going to burn?

All I can hope for is a
safe landing spot and a
hydrant to extinguish the passionate flames.
And only then,
from the fertile ashes of a life once lived and
the sticky residue of a mirage once made
can the beautiful wildflowers
grow and the rain finally
fall.





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