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.
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