Heat of Summer Suns

With the heat given out by a firefly in a bottle, 

shards are broken, bomb and knife, 

the splinter of senses, 

The litany of evil deeds, 

that pour forth from the TV sets 

into houses where reaction is less compassion now, 

more of lethargy. 

These mayfly moments 

of sharpened hearts 

that can only exist for a second, 

dead after, remembered all the same, 

as strange, they weigh so much more alone, 

than the name of all his collected dead. 

A mask of hate, so much easier to wear than of kindness. 

Heroes are made in memorandum. 

Devils stacked high. 

The world steps on. 

There’s nothing else to be done. 

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