Amongst the blowing

Trees,

Taller than the stilts

Made from

The exoskeletons

Of said trees.

Sits,

Or in this case,

Floats

A single pink balloon.

It’s prologue is written and

Buried in some

Lost & found container

(A treasure chest would be to easy to find)

At the bottom of

Some hill,

Somewhere else.

Away from the balloon entirely.

To its audience,

In this case,

 Greasy tree-trimmers

And

Barefoot tree climbers alike

Who fight with sticks that

Cut like

Real swords.

It has become

A spectacle.

A trophy.

A fiscal responsibility.

Bobbing from branch to

Branch,

(Like an apple, bobbing in both confusion and water)

Ironically dodging

The unpredictable likes of the

Symbiotic squirrels,

And the pointy tips of the acorns that

They so desperately desire.

From afar,

Throngs of nouns,

Engaging in various verbs,

Pay no attention to the isolated balloon.

And continue to engage in various other sciences.

So many chemists,

So many ceramicists,

Could easily draw up a plan to spare the

Helpless balloon from

A

Noisy

&

Cliche fate.

 And as gradual deflation begins,

And the balloon looks like it is melting

(Like a misplaced scoop of ice cream)

To the few,

Who are now paying attention.

Who are now licking their lips.

And still no eulogy is written.

The  death of the balloon is

Accompanied only by the roaring of chainsaws

And the

Rattling sound of woodpeckers.

That  solemnly believe in uncovering what is not theirs.

The balloons goodbye is the third song sung that day.

A  tertiary soliloquy,

For such a noble gas,

In disguise.