|
Menu
|
|
|
Social
|
|
|
|
Articles/Stories Administration
|
|
Edit Poem
Editing Instructions
Please note in the NOTES textbox below that this poem has been edited, do
not put your name, please put as the following: <!--EDITED by moderators
on (Date) for (reasons).--> DO NOT remove the line break (
<br /> ) html coding at the end of each line break, these are
needed to form the correct lines. THE CHEATIf you do not wish to
delete a poem, or a certain part of a poem, and instead would like to send the
url to Mick via PM for confirmation, enclose the entire poem (or part/s thereof)
between <!-- and -->
(ie. <!-- POEM TEXT HERE
-->). This will still save the text, but will make it invisible from
viewing (other than page source view). You could also add before the
<!-- something to the effect of "This Poem under review".
He wants to know where the Balloons go
See the sinking of the sun,
on its monumental beam.
Touching heights that are seldom seen,
in cold damp corners of an abandoned dream.
Watching the weather change from cloudy to you.
Balloons with filled imaginations sticking to the walls of children's minds.
A circus parade with those silly hats, and a candle made from love.
A grown tedious man watches the balloon like the sun float away.
Tasting the past, sticking to his mouth like the old songs that use to say.
Awaiting olden ways, never giving time for today.
A child passes with a taste for something more.
Chewing his passage of time with the greatest of ease.
He has no time to regret the bitter pill of times he will never know.
For the present is the gift that keeps on giving.
Only childhood toys litter the past behind him.
Both these sparks of life are as equal to the sun.
Beauty to rise and the grace to set.
Understanding that each passage, each new life is a tale for all to experience.
Life the chapter we all should have the ability to read from.
Regret is something we should learn from the young.
To live the way we want our stories to be told.
Never faltering on the lines thrown from another opinions play.
To be who we are, from caterpillar to butterfly.
Needing not the latter to see the grace of the first.
Both are learnt with time.
Something we all need to hold precious.
Since time is only an illusion.
To keep our feet scurrying to chase the hands.
To watch the face and wonder where the day went.
To know where the balloons go.
|
|
|
|
|