(20 minute poetry)

We still get balloons to blow up when we grow up and the sun still shines as bright, but the day gets shorter and the night lasts longer,
I like red balloons the best.

If you messed things up like me
you tend to appreciate the
little things we see,
even a daffodil after a chilly start to the year opens its eyes to wipe away a tear,
so why not I?

As age takes a firmer grip of my hand and the castles I made all fall back into the sand
I can see those balloons floating free as if the balloons that I blew up were in fact actually me.

Everything's fluid
the ebb
the flow
the balloons that we blow,
where does it all go
when
the Sun sets?