…it starts at the very end
the moment you realize that everything hits a zenith
an aim
a target
a meaning
or at least, has to
when you see the sparkling meteorics strike against the roofs of the sky
the tail-lights petering out
and soft smoke curling tendrils through the bleak wintry gasps

when you see the rocket burn the bottle with a purpose
to serve
to bleach the sky bright for the awe of people trapped under it
to flash in pretty jagged lights
to set fire to the darkness echoing

when you see the heads of phosphor, rearing charred against the blistering ground
bubbling, faulted with the corpses of so many who tried and failed
of those who never blacked the bottle
of those who never laughed screaming through the wind

you ponder purpose
listen to the wide-eyed serenities that follow fires like moths
the kiss of stardust engines, the whispering of mephitic chemicals
technicolor bursts in the grips of cacophonic symphony
and the point of the firework
the diastolic shreds of pyromania
when one firework is no grander than the last, no red veined ribbon brighter
than the sparks that fall to the grass

and the meaning
of the preconceptions that blot the rocket from eternity
that allow evanescence in the reddest of sounds
in the whitest of lights
in the hope that two seconds are for ever caught
in the screams and laughs that make one span the unbearable brightness of

then you understand that the question lies not
in the opulence of furious display
but whether the firework need ever blaze its trail at all.

for whom must we explode?


Note: Image sourced from Alena Aenami’s Artstation portfolio.

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