The fireworks burst, to the delight of all,
in gleaming shards, in patches of color,
scattered in the sky, against the dark.
And where light was once,
there it will not be again.
The light more spirit than substance.
As if just impulse, upon a black night.
As if not really something: as if streaks of thought.
As if nothing. As if not.
As if all the world could come to be
the merest streak against the blackest
wisp of night.
And choirs would be singing its way to the heavens.
And fire would burn as bright as stars.
And all that was would ignite –
I’d be there, too, riding on a constellation –
and everything would be the merest burst
in the vastest emptiness of thought.
The fireworks burst, like the birth of our being.
Like the bang so far ago.
Like light before all things to come.
Like now. Like nothing.
Like all that could be.
With every flicker of light, a flame,
small and bright, coming from the most primal blaze
created on the first day of everything.
Light from dark, and so life began.
The fireworks.
Against a night-dark sky.
And, where light once was,
there it will not be again.
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