Fireworks
All does start with a tiny spark,
Which is born into the icy dark.
Sizzling along the shrinking fuse,
It doesn’t even recognise its own use.
Thereupon, it gets forced, in a box full
Of lies, truths and agreed upon rules,
To accept and adopt certain attitudes.
The square won’t allow the flame to pull
Itself out.
For all the knowledge the box didn’t drill
The spark does its best, the gaps to fill, until
Promptly and ready to conquer the sky,
The flame rockets into the air up high.
Of falling down it does not think,
But rather, yellow, green and pink,
It explodes far above the clouds,
Brightening the day of watching crowds.
Sadly, I must inform, I am mistaken,
As this road of life was never taken.
It is just the thought of a little spark
That couldn’t be lit in the rainy dark.
It was left behind and died in pain
As it believed its fight to be in vain.