Nothing is real
It’s all an illusion,
We skip in and out of bubbles

In a constant flux
Carpets one day,
Floor boards the  next
Whitewash the walls
Cover the dirt of bygone days
Or paint them red, blood red.
Noone is any the wiser
The future becomes  present
The present the new  past
We work tirelessly to hold on
To a semblance of permanence
Till the bubbles burst again.
All we have is the here and now.