by Nick Gisburne
A thousand blue balloons. To each, a tag
Is tied, before the moment of release.
Extracting dark obsessions from a bag,
Exhausted, drained, his tortured tics increase.
The boy became an artist of repute,
Too young to learn to seize his talent’s truth,
Exploited by the greedy, who pollute
The purity of innocence and youth.
Today he breaks the cycle, snaps the spell,
His visions too chaotic for their cage.
The stink of those he trusted is a smell
He recognised too late. It wakes his rage.
His pictures, torn to pieces, none to soon,
Will paint the sky, with every blue balloon.
