FIreworks

To set the night ablaze
in the burnished twinkle of stellar sights,
is to ignite a cosmos from the brain
shooting sparkles that beguile
and ride them as a spiral within the heart
beyond the terraces of dwelling
where life is a listless layer in lethargy.

But it dies during the eye’s harvest
if it was only a luminous vapors in flashes,
the mirages of suns we dreamed.

All the starbursts we crave
during the light show in our mind
are the auras of what we long to explode
then send rocketing by our hand.

You never appreciate its true essence
as long as you are only fascinated
by a fiery pinprick appearing in the darkness
without wondering about who lit its fuse.

For the real illumination that endures
beyond some eruption that bewitches in a blink
exists the shine within
where the fireworks are made.

Inside will always be the factory
of what can rise to light the sky,
being composed of inner gun powder,
which will reveal its true worth
not just erupted on special occasion,
eventually those gifted missiles of genuine talent
burn long and hot
in steady celebration of value
having more than a temporary ability to impress.