I drift
like Last-Birthday’s balloon.
Deflated-
Deformed-
my shape removed.
And sometimes,
I sink
-slight down-
and kiss the furrowed floorboards with my frown,
for I feel a little dent,
my float is over now.
And so I-
I think I’m loosing colour:
crimson dye drenched right out
to peak the little flesh-flaps gouged,
as if to give that lovely indication
a true wound lies further down.
I’ll let my blood drain.
For as light as trees,
I have no pain.
so
let that gusty breeze blow through-
I do not walk,
I am very rarely moved.
