It begins at the roots of the grass,
This string of fire
And snakes its way toward your sneakers
Like a flame slowly trickling down the
Fuse of a bomb.
You catch alight and
Your arms windmill
Through window panes of sky
Finger tips trailing smoke.
Your soul is a firework,
White sparks cut through
The surface of your skin,
Your hellfire hair slams cigarette
Blasts of envy beneath the daubed grey
Clouds that you throw your cause at.
Your being. Your firework soul.
Rebel with reason
You run, you act
On things that require
Shadowy moments of reflection
Beneath beech trees
On deadened suburban streets.
This fire, it begins at the roots of the grass;
You are its movement.