I used to sell balloons
Filled with a sense of calm;
Blown with lungs full
Of confidence, and a hope
Of your return; willing
To wait a million lifetimes,
With the mere thought of meeting
You again, lit by a solitary match,
Flickering away in a vacuum
That looked a lot like you, born
From your receding silhouette.
Now I'm selling the scrap - those
Busted balloons - discarded
At the price of toxic waste;
Collecting shreds from memories
Hidden in ailing dump-yards;
Deep inside the woods, where love
Could have sprouted instead;
Where a recessive hiraeth now
Walks alone, amidst memories
Of when we stared at the stars
And sighed, hand in hopeful hand.
I've always been a balloon man,
And always will be; just that
The balloons in my hand
Go through the various stages
In their journey across existence;
Mere atoms of rubber glued together,
Forming an identity, swelling up
And receding, or popping for
Trying too hard; letting go yet
Clinging on to a punctured identity,
Begging to emerge from the darkness.
