The Fall

/Still-frame fireworks all around, shards of shrapnel
having fell, lie quietly on the ground. Quite a colorful battlefield;
life dying wonderfully well, spectacular and completely essential
for what lies ahead, lurking, birthing fear, quintessential
though, for harboring in a new year; old man winter will
inevitably follow this fall with it's death, colors and all, wielding
gall held by brother man until he sees the greater cause and yields,
beckoned again to breath another season, this turn being spring
bringing change, new life and metaphor personified, lingering
around until the fullness of life is felt, found singing,
with gaiety, masquerading, before the great gladness is gone; replaced
and disgraced by rage and another belligerent season while amazed,
the god's prey to their God, asking
how much longer can these ways last:
fluctuating devastation being the days
of a cultural iconoclast.