I looked back, bloody and blue-eyed.
I saw fireworks of human bodies and machines, explosions of temper
Starbursts behind eye sockets, empty. Bullets flew, and Bobby took a hit for the team.
Insanity ran rampant, and behind restless eyes, animosity died.
But in the wildness, my irises ran across a razor's edge,
feeling autumn leaves brush against my face.
Winter isn't a season of death; it's just fallow in the growing cycle.
Autumn of that year, that was dying. It was phoenix fire dying to ashes,
failing hearts sparking flame,
wild nights of hope and pain with the wind screaming-
in joy or triumph, I still don't know. It was pressing a flower between the pages of a book and throwing that book to the sun as it died,
soaring restless through the window,
words flying untamed, unashamed from tongues that had minds and hearts of their own,
dodging heavy artillery ammo as the skies went black with dreams and gunfire,
shattered glass and crushed leaves.
Autumn of that year.
Autumn, that was dying, that is dying. It's a beautiful horrible feeling.
I try to reach a hand into the past,
but the girl there is foreign to me.
My skin is untouched by the fire that scorched her face-or nearly.
I can't touch the heart that belonged to her,
the smell of cities burning like Ridley and the sight of indelible allies standing nearbye against a horror horizon,
they belong to her as much as me. Maybe more than me.
But sometimes, when I walk by another utopia flying to heaven on gasoline wings,
I feel that kerosene child move closer to me.
She never withdraws, never shrinks away. She is rising.
As I catch the scent of accelerant on a wind fresh from the north,
I will need her again. She'll need me. This is bigger than both of us.
But this time I won't let myself go. I won't re-be if "civilization"
catches itself a second time-
and if it doesn't,
I will not shed my own sense of insanity.
I will stay,
both kerosene child and back-alley warrior.
I will always be ready in apocalypse autumn.