Silver Balloon

I used to dream of a world,
where people would shake hands and smile.
Maybe they’d even hug.
But probably only if they knew each other well.

I used to dream that instead of wars,
people would talk.
Solve issues by discussing them.
Intelligibly. Amicably. Respectfully.

Naive they said.
Grow up they said.

And I guess they were right.

My dreams froze. Turned into stone.
Like a silver balloon,
attached to the hand of a child,
weighing him down,
instead of lifting him up.

©Karina Rye, February 19th, 2016