Oh, victorious fireworks,
cast from our Fathers pipes,
the Fourth night you are the Stars,
and the rest you paint in Stripes.
Your explosive lights and sonic booms
echo our Independence debut,
the commencement of Freedom and Justice,
and the meaning of Red, White, and Blue.
Every home in the nation
breathes the smoke of your glory,
hotdogs, parades, and barbecues
around bonfires and a story.
Oh, victorious fireworks,
Illuminated explosions in sky,
our heart beats with you,
on this day, The Fourth of July.
One who takes pride in their modesty isn’t being as modest as they’d like everyone to believe.
A symphony starts
when the tempest winds blow,
moving gray cloud pads
behind lightening strings bow.
The thunder brass strikes
between the rain drums beat,
rippling once silent puddles
into hi-hat heat.
Undertones of texture,
crackling rooftop patter,
synthetic ambient ocean pads,
indoor muffled chatter.
Natures atmospheric ensemble,
Rhythm-ized to relax,
through the rain drums beat,
and its symphonic sax.
Guerilla global warming,
hung from careless hands,
sands slowly sinking,
shrinking tropic lands.
Temperatures are toasting,
roasting artic S’mores,
species extinguished,
dished by summer’s wars.
Heat strokes and skin cancer,
dancing through the smoke,
provoke Mother Nature,
all together now, choke.
Forests set a’ fire,
carbon in the sky,
goodbye dear planet,
for I murdered you and I.
The fattest fairytale ever fed
fixes a folly to foil ones head.
Flattering its host with features to attract,
it forges a fiction flavored like fact.
It’s firm to force that flesh will fade
and fibers internal are forever in grade.
Made in faith this figure does flower,
framed as the most famous, favorite, phantasmal power.
Our father who art not in heaven,
figure in yet another seven
days or more
to free us from each and every war
scored in your shifty label,
your fading film like fraying fable
feeding on man’s fear of death,
a fog, lacking face and breath.
Fumbling upon only what is said,
this fairytale fantasy foots to wed
man with prayer
at his bed.
Perhaps we are looking for a “why” to an “oops, wtf” first action that just keeps rollin’
To live is to die a slow death.
Branches curiously root-like replicate themselves into the frozen air to jointly host today’s fair burden of romancing winters frosty breath upon their once deathlike limbs. A skeletal framework now flattered to be spangled by nature’s artistic compliments ironically outlines the now treacherous icy road routinely worn in attempts to make a living. Fortunately, the real crisp breaths of livelihood come not from arriving at ones destination, but from traveling on that slippery road while admiring and acknowledging the six inches of snow that transformed the once lifeless scenery into a breathtaking live illustration.
Children’s personification of inanimate objects compliment their imaginary friend complex and subjects them to being unable to distinguish between reality and fantasy to the point of where even as an adult they cling to an Imaginary attic friend whom they have been conditioned to believe really exists and should be referred to as an almighty omniscient god whom spares no rod to those without faith to worship it’s name and proclaim to all others that they too need to worship this invisible “who” whom they do not have evidence exists yet cite as fact and deny sciences act of studying reality in which no supernatural events have been found to be sound or even remotely possible in a world where respect for nature is being replaced by mans attachment to comfort and his imaginary attic friend who claims to fill in all the gaps to its host’s unknowns and stones all others who do not share the same grand delusion of the idea of a peaceful supernatural deity who curiously allows suffering and peculiarly requires it’s followers to reject reason, logic, and evidence for carefully arranged words in a man made book without proof to support its claims so it remains a spoof to me and all others who think reasonably free from such memetic debris.
How dare I stare into the eyes of the universe when the infinite darkness between the stars can swallow me whole in just one glance and when reflecting on time my consciousness is raised yet suffocated at the thought that I exist in just a fraction of a speck of time’s infiniteness? As insignificant as I may feel, I am the universe, at least a scrap of it, and if I thought the universe were conscious, I would criticize it for being cruel to allow me to live, love, be aware, and become attached to this temporary life, just to later take it away. But really, such criticism would be unwarranted, for I do love life, and love having been given the chance to experience life. Any attachment to it is my own mistake. Nothing about it can be done for now. I shall love life as I do, and I have no choice but to die accepting it when the time comes. I am at the mercy of the universe.
