Red Balloons

Up from scissors

sharp tendrils forced into a curl from birth

around and around the womb, of an innocent air.

We climb up from our ribbon-like threads to form us.

Pure, full, red balloons. We party

then discard our trapped, stale, gas from once frantically mouthed, stretched latex and fingers.

I too, finally expelled my air from being puffed up for too long,

in shiny, showy hues that seem to change in the mist as I moved and floated.

That proud bulge of ego

cruising above something (I thought perhaps, I needed to be above.)

I believed I was celebratory, but once let-go, I drifted over water and caught my vivid reflection briefly— enough to aim for solid land; up and down, farther then closer, until I finally hit.

I barely hissed my way out of the tightly held bubble; the well-loved old trap.

Propelled by my deflate, I rested for a time.

And in my broken remnants, felt free to go on to new and better gatherings,

(and by the grace of God, re-purposed, perhaps: One. Last. Party.)