Fireworks

What fireworks seem is what they are, A spark of light, then gone too far. A dream I chase, a wish I hold, Then let it go, as I grew old. Like self-reflection, a mirror cracked, A flare of who they are, intact. Explosive, chaotic, raw, yet brief, A burning truth beneath their grief. Sometimes, they’re a damn good lie, A happiness I thought would never die. Bright and loud, then gone so quick, A dazzling trick that makes you sick. A shadow left where light once traced, A starry night, now lost, erased. Like a flash, burn, then fading bright, Like everything that feels so right. Do they mean everything, or nothing at all? A moment of grandeur, or a moment to fall? 'Cuz to some, they’re life; to others, regret, A spark of joy, a shadow of debt. They’re love, they’re loss, a fleeting thrill, A beauty too restless to stay still. They mean the world, they mean the pain, A million feelings, then gone again. Fireworks—so damn poetic, right? A burst of meaning in the night. To me, they’re wild, messy, profound, But in the end, they hit the ground. So love them, hate them, curse their glow, Take what they mean, and let the rest go. For each of us, they’re something new, A fleeting spark, a personal view.