An Iron Balloon
You provide the bread and I’ll provide the crumbs.
Let us feed on our banquet of emptiness,
Like ghouls at a christening or body snatchers at the wake.
Let us scavenge for the barest morsels of eternity that may have gone overlooked
Slipped under the layered dust,
Under the sediment left by crumbling ruins of once proud memories now long obsolete.
The mirror shatters into a trillion pieces, but who’s counting anyway?
What is there left of the life once imagined?
Once rising above us, over the years,
Once inflated by virtues and memories, and
Now collapsed like a defeated Zeppelin;
Under an Iron Balloon.
© Igor Goldkind October, 2022
The sense of groundlessness and loss of dreams – many of us recognize daily as vague panic – is palpable and eloquently expressed here- the noble reason for the poet having his poetry. Thank you.
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October 2, 2022 at 12:07 am
It is precisely that vague panic I wish to express and for you to recognize as a universal sensation. The struggle between our imagined selves for which all motivation and drive to live is derived and the compromise imposed by reality, the truth of who we turned out to be is an angst to be confronted lest it consumes us from the inside out.
October 2, 2022 at 8:39 am