Firework’s Night

More bad poetry? Christ, I bet you’re getting tired of this by now? Anyway, just so you know, I currently trying out The Caitiff in third-person again; I know, I know, if I’ve already written it in 1st and completed it, what purpose is there in trying different things again?

Well, why the hell not? It’s not like anyone’s going to want to read the thing anyway. Sometimes, a lot of the time, I think I should continue to tweak The Caitiff until I die and, then, have it burned with my corpse; a personal narrative, one wholly for me.

I take little pleasure in that thought – Here’s Firework’s Night.

Publicity trundles away
and leaves me stranded in
the heart of this night;

Beneath these dozen shades
of black and grey,
which culminate in this
un-secreted alleyway.

A slash of nature
amongst the sprawl
and the constant innovation
of civilisation.

I retreat to this place
that I might avoid such progress’ call
and pretend that there is some security
in this open-air and natural hall.

The fireworks,
mocking a terrorist,
crash overhead.

Their lights grace the trees,
warped from silhouettes to illuminations –
til’ the ground beneath,
wet with leaves,

Red and gold, like the blood,
the money, in the heart of this nation fair.

How can I help,
but live in sacred moments like these?

I claim I die in repeated motions,
in replicated moments stretching out –

I don’t.
I wish that I did.

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