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

cherry. 

Airplanes fly through them,

Bright dresses tried on before 

being left in the dressing room. 

Maybe God will buy a dress

second-hand

in the drifting

thrift store. 

I hope it accents Their blushes.

I hope it brings out Their eyes.

About the Author

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.