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 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 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.