they rise up.
Like helium balloons,
at a cloudy promise
of a ray of sunshine.
Hopes spring up,
like blossoms awaiting bees
like rainbows forecasting rain,
heady with what
too perfect to be contained
they swell with sweetness,
the sickly scent of anticipation wears off
like cheap perfume,
like it was never really there at all.
And the sunflower bows its head
and weeps in darkness,
and the helium balloons
drift far out of mind.
The blossoms drop,
wilted and weighted by unpollinated promises,
resting with the rotted fruit of daydreams.
The rainbow was just an illusion anyway.