The spry touch of a burning gift,
Upon a fuse by a little spark in a manner so swift,
Ignites the fire of life and on a journey to embark,
Until parturition brings forth light from the dark.
How many gather round to observe the flight,
In anticipation of socially acceptable delight,
Will it be yellow, will it be blue?
Lest it should matter or under what colour flag it flew!
Some will fly high, others not at all,
A few may inspire and yet many more will just fall,
In this grand display that feels so dispossessed,
Can we not love the meek as much as the rest?
So whether it be with a fizzle, a crackle or out with a bang,
Deadly darkness soon returns to where living lights once swam,
And only a memory remains that disappoints as it fades,
Dimming recollections replaced by new firework parades.