Technicolour

The aeronautical clouds are set into
Continental drift,
Strewing their invisible odours from their
Fluffy, protean bodies.

(Flimsy figures morphing
In volatility. Meandering into various shapes.)

The children are playing outside
With Frisbees and skipping ropes
And artificial bubbles whizzing and fizzing.
Won't you join them too?

Basking on the play-smudged lawn of
Flowers beckoning with sweet-scented aromas
And iridescent pixels,
Like virtual sketches
Digitally remastered by the children's ecstatic art
And rapturously swishing paintbrushes.

From Juliet's balcony do I stand here
Trapped,
Gazing down at the wayward world
And bound just by a few metal grills.

(Her mind waltzes back in.)

Shall I wait here
On my dusty wooden chair,
Or shall I leap off my window sill to join you.