The Festival of Lights

Once,
it used to mean
some things sweet, and bright,
with little sparks of fire that
we liked to pretend
we could control.

Then,
it was all about
bottles, and stories and spirits
and being able to fly
without any
rockets.

Later,
it was the red horizon
itself watching over me
as I lit my heart and
flung it far above at
the laughing sky.

And then,
for a little while,
it was really the festival of lights
where good had
vanquished
Evil.

But,
the prettiest of Fables
are often the darkest of tales
and the edge of suspicion
is the sharpest
of blades.

Once,
it used to mean something
more than just empty noises
that don’t even disrupt
the quiet solitude
of unfair exile.

Once,
it used to mean more
than watching fire burning fire
even as the rest of the World
slowly began to turn into
frozen porcelain.

Once,
it used to remind me of more
than the sting of betrayal
that even the old Gods
prove themselves
capable of.

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