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Balloons
The red balloon floats away.
The blue balloon sinks to the ground and pops.
The white one just hovers next to me.
I watch my red one fly,
Cry for the lost blue one,
But hug the white one close.
“I wish I was that red balloon,”
Says the white one,
“I want to fly away from here, too.”
“Well, I wish I was the blue one.” I say.
“Why?”
“Because it, too, is free.”

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"Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. "<br /> Thomas Gray