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Not Growing Up with Fireflies

I trust the sunshine always to decry the mystery.

By Devon HeavenshirePublished 7 years ago 1 min read

Not growing up with fireflies I knew no wonder (NO wonder)(truly no wonder, like some Roman scarred by bloodlust wavingsome bread/circus-tendered hand at some poor soulcondemned to die) which sounds dramatic–save for whenI hit one on a highway choked with tiger lilies,running through the town of Van Leer, Tennessee.I stared, dumbfounded, at the incandescent splatter(like some Roman, with one bourgeois ear to Pauland his Good News that even if you lacked religionyou had nature from the start to prove to you that God existed) and the wipers spread it thin–it faded as the skypaled bloodless into dawn, and I was struck (was STRUCK)(truly was struck, as though some parable had resonatedthrough my thick and Gentile mind) with its climactic disappearance,matching stroke for stroke the spangled cloudless blackwith neon lime, and then the aquamarine with a subtle sea-foam,and then the fading ochre-denim with a fading greenish-grey.Then, in light, of course, a spittle-seeming smear. I trustthe sunshine always to decry the mystery.It does not touch the memory that, clinging, now,invites me to hold forth (like some poor Romansinging candidly his praises to a deaf and dying god)(like some dead god, who, hearing him, must then exterminate humanityto make him see the error of his ways.)

nature poetrysurreal poetry

About the Creator

Devon Heavenshire

Gay as fuck

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