Escape

If I had a hundred mathematically-large-enough

balloons

I’d cram the strings together

in a woven vest and rise higher

higher

through rain-gilded cloudscape.

I’d subsist on vapors, or maybe on sunrise ambrosia –

till atmospheric pressure (or somesuch scientific phenomenon)

popped just one

balloon.

Then I’d drop more rapidly than I rose:

the most obsequious, impotent adherent to Gravity and his unalterable law.

But really, I have to admit

-as I revisit clouds and ambrosia rays and treetops drawing nearer-

I was never free

and soon

I am right back where I started,

amidst 99 deflated spheres of red.

 

Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction Challenge.