Into the captivity of your heart,
We let our blue balloons depart;
Into the twilight of the sky.
Into the night. Where our shadows still fly.
Three years later, too far from the sea,
Having escaped, having broke free,
No longer a lone poet, surrounded by boors,
I felt a lone virgin, surrounded by whores.
And now our balloons may have never been found,
Lying untouched, as I was, on the ground,
But still hold their meaning, in unwritten words,
Hopefully not having killed any birds.
I faded in comforted silence at last.
Silence like crystal. Silence like the past.
Steeped and forsaken, quiet anesthesia,
In the ambrosia of violent amnesia.
― Written by Anna Vera Williams at Age 17