the story of the ball

reaching up and away by SI

it was a tennis ball, yellow, round, white threading,
it was handled by a few, thrown and caught, then, thrown and hit,
it rolled the few times it thought it made its escape,
only to be picked up and thrown and hit,
again and again,
it wasn't worried though, it eventually will,
it didn't do as well as the other ones,
but it wasn't meant to just be (a ball),
it was meant for superlative catapulting,
that no hand could throw,
although the hand or some other object must give it its momentum,
otherwise it will stay forever under a bench or seat,
finding repose on a placid floor of green,
that was the goal of other tennis balls,
but not for it, not for it,
it was meant to be on its own,
with forms of patronage to move and release it,
with that came minor freedoms, as it moved outside,
and then major ones dazzled it,
it flew over and across an entire route of conveyances and contraptions,
then it made its way through a wet, grassy grove,
torpedoing above hedonistic edifices,
parachuting towards incandescent Moirai,
it wanted to go beyond the caboodle,
feel the sun's rays, the moon's obscurity,
or the hole as it swallows it whole,
and so, all of it happens,
and it is no more, because it fell into the hole,
and into that hole, it must have come undone,
it was a tennis ball, yellow, round, white threading,
but now, it is nothing, that is how it wished to end.