The balloons were foreign to him

brightly coloured baby reds, greens, pinks, and blues

bonding through rubbing a genie bottle

imbalance of charges

They float, hovering strings trailing the grounds

never touching, no connections

with his own grooves curving on his fingerprints

thermogram, sunset red to navy blue

wafting off, undetected but invisibly seen

and the pin, metallic pinnacles glinting at the end

just a small prick, won’t hurt too much

their balloon heads bobbing in agreement exploded

with a rush of air of a thousand kamikaze jet planes propelling

rubber wrinkly, shrinking, shirking responsibility,

exhaling carbon dioxide is a crumb trail for mosquitos missiles

All the balloons are floating for entertainment

for a single purpose and desire

for the ascension, to be litter, or the resurrection

We look fresh and boisterous when alive

but we return back to our pre-blown fetal forms

small maggot worms

crumbs malleable, prehistoric fossil forms


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