When All the Bubbles Burst

When all the bubbles burst,
in far-off islands,
in scattered space,
don’t blink.

Because somewhere else,
other bubbles
are blowing
into place.

Birth.
Funeral.
The bowtie tear
between shadow and flare,
between a sigh
and the first inhale of light.

But listen—
in other realms,
where thought bends time
and time wears no name,
those bursting spheres
stitch a vast,
handsewn cape.

Each tear,
a thread
in the tapestry of return.

A reverse fall.
Salmon rising.
Not down the stream,
but back,
to the peak.
To the height.

Where eagle bands
beat wings of animation,
soundless,
but alive.

And the glares,
oh, the glares,
they don’t break,
they join.

They burn
into a single, breathing eye:
a shimmer of shared intention.

And then,
they vanish.

Melt
into the conscience
of Ahuramazda.

Not forgotten.
Fulfilled.