I Will Not Be Held By Order

Somewhere, gravity holds no power
to press or pull.
It lays lonely and forlorn,
a child reaching above its head
for the balloons just out of reach.

I will hang cherries from the clouds,
leaving them polka-dotted,
red-spotted. Sick.

Chicken little gave the sky little chicken pox,
and now, maybe it is falling
in love with ornamentation,
finally seeing the gaiety
of Triviality.

The clouds float around,
having finally dyed
and been reborn

Airplanes fly through them,
Bright dresses tried on before
being left in the dressing room.

Maybe God will buy a dress
in the drifting
thrift store.
I hope it accents Their blushes.
I hope it brings out Their eyes.

William Kyle Whitlock III is a junior, or so he thinks, majoring in English, or so he also thinks. He enjoys writing poetry, fiction, and creative non-fiction, preferably comedic, and acting. He prefers his tea loose, his games board, and his pens fountain.