The West Is Burning

Glory goes to they who blaze Their own trail upon the west. They will be, if nothing else, remembered. Their morality ambiguous Scruples questionable. At best, an antihero to be scoffed at and spit upon. In fear of the fiends in the tall grass They are burning every acre of the field. The children search for the bodies Of their parents for approval To praise their newfound freedom. Free from being dumb and useless. Fleshless carrion bakes in the noon sun. There are footprints in the ashes Inhaled into our lungs, all due To the sick remorseless reasoning Of one sick individual. Do we blame the match? Or the flame it started? Or the grass that lit Too easily ablaze; Or the fingers that clinched The matchstick As it dragged across The red phosphorous And the powdered glass; Or the eyes that beheld The light of the flame Before it was thrown Upon the scenery; Who can we blame? Rhetoric is useless Language is a luxury Vocabulary grows best in a vacuum. Land is only valuable To those who walk upon it. We must realize how truly insignificant We are to the vast expanse Of the landscape beneath our feet. Footprints disappear. We can burn the farms and prairies But we cannot pretend that we Will outlast this dirt, outlive This earth, or understand this universe. It is all but a blaze and then a blur.