The blue balloon

How pain scratches through almost hope. I watch as the shrivelling blue balloon floats lonely along the shore with no destination but its own demise. A child's lost joy perhaps stolen by the breeze. Who else notices this small insignificant innocense bobbing with the ripples of trapped fluidity before me? I breathe in alone witnessing that is right before my eyes with its simplistic beauty hidden from black and white view. I think not but who to share as I scratch at the hurt where hope is within and without reach. If I could only let go as the belonger of lost pleasure, of lost security of the heart and float where the water takes with the same certainty as the now blue spec on its way to nowhere, for nowhere but dust and ash is where we all head with determined destination to belong with greater significance than we are but for destruction of the dream of life flourishing without rancour. In gathering borne of fear of scarcity we hoard all that need not exist but to sit and watch and wonder as life passes through us like the wind upon which steals the blue balloon gone.