A destiny crafted troubadour
sits the saddle of the one before,
takes the longer road if given the chance.
Can see only illusion through wide open eyes,
reflecting honesty and surprise;
as the lady by the roadside began to dance
could not remember what it was he had come here for.
There were children under the whisper tree,
near the spartan rooms for rent.
The tired man on the wonderful horse
showed a wire loop, with soap and water mixed;
their imagination caught; their boredom fixed.
It was his and their idea of good fun, of course,
as each bubble was ever so slightly different.
As the lady twirled ever so mysteriously with the bubbles,
he never once wondered what freedom was.
The ones that were landing so near to her
without breaking remained crystal clear to her,
were as warmed by her smile as he was,
revealing that she was the one he had come here to see.
It was not quite a promise, not really of romance,
as if the ballerina had designs like that.
His weakness for her had strongly doubled,
perceiving with each bursting imperfect bubble;
he had been deceived before by signs like that,
so he rode on, too cynical to take the chance.