A Blue balloon,

attached to fraying string, the sky

the limit

in its desire to see

the world for what it truly is,

held only by childish fingers,

white with tightness,

grim determination upon the glowing face;

like that balloon

I yearn to look down

upon

the shit storm

we have created

and I will pull away from the fingers that bind me

and sail into the sky

before

I inevitably

Pop.

Ian D. Hall 2016