Ode to Writing
I rise like a red balloon, untethered and vacant.
All of my shields, iron plates, bows and arrows
I have stripped and left in an urn named
yesterday. The fog of blurred progression
has retreated from above me and collects
in a plume, protecting what once was.
I am amok in the world, torn by immense
tensional forces, buffeted by stratopherical gusts
but delighted.
