I like the sound, sense and common subjectivity of this poem. I can see Banksy’s balloon girl, sense her right hand fully extended, imagine her palm empty, those clear pallid notes of her song and passion dancing high amongst the rational winds of chaotic change. Meaningful transformations of the heart have already heard about this worldly sense and press of reason that blows interference through the ages of immediacy. Ego tends mostly to heed to this sweet tasting urgency, its narcissistic easy going ways of pride needing quick fixes and other kinds of reflex gratification, those which almost always first must be delayed and reflected upon, but not for a second more than is absolutely necessary. For lurking deep within the shadowy perpetual blackness is our hanging judge, with his complex gauntlet, pistol and sword, praying and blindly watching over us, until suddenly in one fell swoop, each and every hope dream string, which was but briefly awakened of life, is left dangling at the precipice of its own death, and a wild danse macabras of shot rings out unseen through the abyss, and our balloon headed child is cut off, withering out of air a-pruning and a-falling heart deflated like hard rain droplets of nuclear waste or reusable hope, gathering in stagnant pools of bloody x-rays on the ground. Humans like our anima(l) shadows intuitively know we’ve been coerced by the curses of reason into forgetfulness, that it is the heart which leads and that our dreams won’t easily settle. 4 Stars. MLL