Its occupants pretending that everything is fine,
While others stand unspeaking
Seemingly afraid of the heat.
Heat hot enough to bend the beams, bright enough to blind,
And warm enough to comfort us while things fall apart,
Littering the ground with
The crumbs of our progress.
Calmly, we return to our homes, though the fire starters,
Rabid in their fervent desire for a familiar "real change,"
Continue to stalk the streets.
A half-brick breaks our window.
The bottle follows. I shake my father, my mother, my kin,
But they do as they do while the drapes ignite, waving me off,
Because what can they do?
The world burns despite them.
I lay on the grass, our garden untouched but for the
Falling embers and ashes of everything I thought I had known,
Cursing the year when it's clear
That the people are to blame.