The whole city a coral reef.
Resplendent with phosphorescence.
Punctuated with staccato blasts. Syncopated echoes to every flash.
Yet so fragmented.
Too many, many small, pigeon holed shouls.
Hardly an ecology. Or society.
My God, united, all displays could make a blaze fit for a King.
Whole streets pooling knives and Fawkes to celebrate.
With Fireworks. A feast. Culinary conspirators.
Still the fireworks. Always. Now lone
sentinels sent heavenwards, laden with prayers.
Momentary bursts of energy, all spent in their fruition.
Leaving nothing behind.
© Tom Tide 2016