Fireworks

While steep above the mountain range to gaze,
a cough cuts through the chunky air.
The rocks echo the sound, with birds to sing a chorus in flight ahead.

They bring interest to the clear sky like freckles on the skin.

Turning my tent for the wind undertaking
ripping lightly inside my clothes;
it’s sad believing time will wait, until we see wind that blows forever still.

Make haste! The speed shovels the ground:

a gust to friction clouds of dirt
I lose my weight, my cap, my shirt.
I bridge the gap like a broken spindle
with locomotive heat to kindle.
For lust! Desire to touch thimbles
of leaves, of lands, yes modern symbols.

–AY

I wrote it awhile ago, for an actual poetry class. I like reading it to myself, especially on days when I actually wish for the action to happen. Today was one of those days...helplessly hoping (Thank you CS&N).

Yes, I know people who say fireworks suck.

I cried laughing so hard at this phrase. To me, I think most humans contain an awe for them. Once you've seen and heard fireworks once, there isn't much of an aesthetic pleasure to them anymore, yet you still glare in awe.

Your life could be in shambles: you don't know where you're going, what you'll do when you get there or why you were even put here on this earth. But as you lie on your back and stare up at the familiar organization of lights blowing out and spreading across the sky perfectly each time, you realize one thing...

Mankind has and will continue to adore and master the art of the explosion.

And you end up lying there, loving the life you got.