Blaspheming

Because we are all fireflies tonight

dying but bouncing in and out and all around the dirt-stained light in the dusty barnyard.

Because we are the light that will be zapped and singed

by family

by heat

by the holy warmth of the one we worship. What

difference would it make?

Tell me, would it make a difference

if I stagger on to the cliff to make it easy for the one who takes lives, for

the overworked ironic being, the angel of death,

the devil of solitude, irony

in name, in act, in existence.

Would it make a difference to use the air as

the cushion and the grass as the arms that will hold me first and last, forever?

Or would the cliff pivot and deposit

me from where I was running because

who am I to think that  this life I’m living is my own,

it isn’t.

It is a house my soul rents and

will leave when it grows tired of it or it has been filled

with cans and wrappers and bodies writhing with pain or ecstasy

or just the bodies of a thousand broken aspirations.

What difference would it make to beg

for my soul to stay

or to push it to leave before it wishes to leave, because

tonight we are all fireflies

and salvation is but a dream.

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