by Nick Gisburne
Though no one else can see them, Simon can.
They tether, always two, behind the head.
A quiet, calm, extraordinary man,
He watches, as they come to claim the dead.
Two tiny, unremarkable balloons.
Together, each extends a slender cord,
Expanding into fat, misshapen moons,
As every soul is syphoned, sapped, and stored.
If Simon ever thought to intervene,
He knows they would destroy him, from within.
He saw them take his sister, seventeen.
They cannot be denied. They always win.
He watches. As the skies of summer dim,
Two more, too soon, attach themselves to him.
