Geometric shapeshifter shall I be?
What could cause such a sight?
Will my shapes change with delight?
My blue hue is just a front.
Appearing white is quite the stunt.
An object of science fiction I am not.
From a supplier, I was bought.
Have I succeeded in fueling your imagination?
Stringing out along my container; taking your brain to a new station.
Look at me. See how I form ridges and craters.
Believe it or not, I do have my haters.
I have instructions for use.
Imagine the abuse.
About half way down;
the container, I frown.
My strings and shapes disappear.
My uniqueness is no longer clear.
The science fiction status I claimed –
has wained.
Now, a flat featureless surface is all I have.
Shh, one more feature. A valve?
Bubbles from the bottom?
I gott’em.
Do they tickle?
Should I worry? Am I in a pickle?
Bubbles rise. Levels fall.
I’m being used up. This is my call.
Germs. Die!
I will make you cry.
My job I will do.
Chaos might ensue.
Poetry & More 