Inflate the ego at your own risk
lest the air go to the head
with results that few pursue
when doom arrives at the end

the race is run against the wind
lifting those who seek to fly
the balloon rising high
before falling to the ground

pushed by storms that twirl within
a gravity spun from the soul
the black hole light can’t escape
when assumptions consume grace

the detonation comes at last
between the pull and the push
more a whimper than a blast
a fitting end that few admit.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190816.