Balloons.
Every color imaginable, racing
to the top of the sky.
I watch from inside each
plastic bubble, my blood boiling,
my nerves shooting out sparks.
I watch the shrivelled dry
apple crust of earth disappear
finally.
It's so exhilarating that
I barely notice when you pop
pop
Pop.
Air feels solid.
2 comments:
OMG, I LOVE THOSE PHOTOS!
This poem captures the small pops nicely, I think. Not exploding epic pop like the photo... actually, reminds me of droplets falling into water ("plop. the first fell into the surface. plop. waves now, ripples. plop. seething..." etc, etc, etc. *sigh* Okay, so I snitched that idea from a FanFiction story. But it's still interesting).
I imagine bubbles popping. Delicately. Surely.
Lol, and then you put in "blood boiling" and "shrivelled" and I'm like... "Okay, gotta rethink this."
You're not the easiest person to get a handle on, are you Maria? This is another 'counting the snowflakes falling on my tongue' moment.
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