BALLOONS
Your words are
balloons.
Your pneumatic yarns
fill your rubber bags of color,
Expanding their size
and giving them rise.
I run to catch them
while you run off to catch another,
And you still want me
to hold on to your balloons.
This new bunch is so
beautiful!
They move about with
the slightest gust, touching and rubbing each other,
They whisper sweet
moans from the painful friction,
Their wanton
cavorting is enough to fill me with hot air
And give in to the
proposition of this dubious affair.
But your words are
balloons.
The pneumatic
currents will just blow them away.
The heat will warp and expand those sacs until
They explode into
bits of take-backs and alibis,
And I will be left
with the carcasses of elastic lies.
But you still offer
only balloons.
You invite me to the
party that no one attends.
The balloons invite
me to their waltz, yet my feet are full of lead.
The streamers and
lights are so festive, and they cause me to ache.
There is nothing to
celebrate when promises break.
So keep your
balloons.
My words flow to the rhythm of the zephyr;
I marvel at their
beauty as they fly with grace.
I bid them farewell
as they move west of Forever,
As they ride along
gently with the pneumatic pace.
So I will leave you
to your endless race.
No, you won’t ever
see my face:
I’m too busy… releasing
my own balloons.
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