As a child I had a perfect red balloon.
I took delicate strips of crepe paper,
dipped them with paste, and formed a fragile shell around it.
Growing up, crepe paper turned to newspaper, smudged with ink from words marking time.
Paste was no longer strong enough, so I found glue, and occasional stickers to strategically place over gaps.
Aged on and weathered, the strips of newspaper presented carelessly crumpled and shredded.
Glue was replaced by mud of my tears and settling dust from constant construction. Random gems occupy minor dents to deter the eye.
I've built a paper mache heart, strengthening it as life's hardships pay their respects.
Layers upon layers hardened it to be sturdy and solid.
The balloon deflated long ago, but the structure remains. It's cracked, has holes, but holds a nostalgic beauty like that of a well loved antique rocking horse .
I fear though, my demons look up with hallow eyes from down in the depths,
and see a pinata...eager to beat it for the treasures collected inside.