Grassroots Movement

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.