Sunday, 10 July 2011

fireflies ain't so hot.

All together in a paper cup, burning faster than dandelions.
Sparking spurs kicking up to new inventions, kicking up a fuss about it,
pointing out a wrong then drawling out a diagram of what they'll do about it,
unable to see that they are no longer flitting pretty around the garden. Beacons of nothing,
burning on and off like lighthouses, safely warding nothing well away from nowhere, they are...
trapped, in a cup, and I put them there, and although i've given them air, holes, grass...
they are burnt out whispers.

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