A red balloon drifts past my view, its color bright against the blue. It sways, it spins, a fragile flame, a fleeting echo, calling my name. I reach my hand, but it slips by, a fleeting wish against the sky.
Its string a thread I cannot hold, a story lost, a dream grown cold.
It mirrors all I could not say, the things I kept, then gave away.
A childhood laugh, a vanished street, the pulse of hope I could not keep.
Yet in its flight, a quiet thrill,
A stubborn spark, a stubborn will.
The world may take, the wind may steal, but beauty dances, sharp and real.
So let it float, and let it rise,
A crimson dot where sorrow lies.
The red balloon, both mine and free, a tender grief that follows me.
