Walking at Midnight on New Year's Eve

(written for Crim's "The Doors" competition)



The sparks fly upwards into the sky,
scintillating lights that change hue
like galvanized chameleons.

I wonder about the others
who are aching as I am,
who own a sadness not assuaged
by mere external merriment.

Perhaps at this very minute, some
are going so far as to end it all.
Bullets meeting skulls, blades
on wrists. Tiny pills scattered
from bottles.

I sit in the grass and feel
the weight of their leaving.
I know they have passed.
It is almost as if
they speak to me.

Their voices are like
the aftermath of the fireworks,
a troubling stillness
accompanied by the slight scent
of sulfur.