In the beginning, there is purpose,
pressed into neat, rectangular certainty.
The first touch is always hesitant,
a handshake meeting of palm and porcelain.
Fingers trace my smooth, unblemished skin,
their warmth dissolving pieces of me gently.
I am carved by need,
molded by the water’s patient insistence.
Foam blossoms in my wake,
a temporary crown I wear proudly,
each bubble a fleeting testament,
a whisper that I was here.
Children laugh in careless storms,
their joy riding on my suds,
while weary hands scrub fiercely,
rinsing out their long, hard days.
I dwindle with quiet dignity,
a sliver, a shard, a memory
until I vanish completely—
another chapter of cleanliness closed.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: April 12th, 2026 03:59
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 6
- Users favorite of this poem: Friendship
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Comments2
Nicely worded this poem speaks to me of self reflection. Well done
Well written. Your poem explores the transient nature of existence through the metaphor of a bar of soap. It reflects on the themes of purpose, transformation, and the inevitable passage of time.
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