In regards to a Firefly.
I used to look into the corner of my mind,
bundled up in bed,
and catch a firefly â
a small buzzing presence of light.
Now, that got me here;
mud beneath my manicure, clawing,
distracting myself with busy things, grand halls, beautiful projects,
making my life so full,
fit to burst,
no time to even write poetry.
The firefly pulled me out of bed,
taught me to sprint,
but it's glow was dulled by the street lights,
and I chastised myself for ever needing any light at all.
I killed that firefly at New Years,
but it wouldnât die.
I killed it again in Paris,
blinded myself with her smile,
but it wouldnât die.
I attempted on its life while sprinting through the French Riviera,
stubborn little thing, following me around,
and finally, finally, blissfully, for a moment, I got it to stop glowing.
A beautiful and welcome crack formed, and I took advantage.
I knew I was foolish, I knew I was violent, and I knew I was overdoing it,
but I couldnât risk failure now.
I cracked it, earnestly, between the well-washed pavement and the weight of my brand new shoes.
I looked at myself in the mirror and I smiled and I meant it.
I meant it.
I meant it,
But,
with regards to my firefly, I have learned to stop looking for the light,
therein only lies more proof that there is no god,
no universe, no benefic presence awaiting just the correct action,
only silence and indifference and rejection and nonsense,
a bundle of coincidences and a farce of expectations,
and proof that my smiles can be false,
and I can lie,
and my bearings can be tampered with,
and I can be so easily influenced by a little light.
I have no time to look up now,
a good design that is,
protecting me from relapse.
There is only one problem.
Itâs still not dead.
