Happiness is this bubble that we keep chasing,
like a kid who has found something amazing,
the sunlight glinting off its surface does beckon,
as we run behind it single minded and in abandon,
and suddenly this gust of wind pushes it past,
our outstretched finger tips that reach out to grasp,
this bubble that holds us completely in thrall,
for in it lies the elusive key to the mystery of it all.
And lately there is this feeling that the naughty wind,
has been blowing the bubble further as it skimmed,
away on a gust that bounces it dangerously close,
to this bouquet of thorns that adorn the solitary rose,
that draws the bubble in like a doomed moth to a flame,
and seeks to impale it in a semblance of a cruel game,
in which there is only one victor to whom the spoils go,
the rose that stands proudly next to the thorns that grow.
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