Bastille Day

Bastille Day

I climb over the wreckage of you -

bent rusted iron, crumbled stone.

My cheeks - stained with soot,

hair - dandruffed with ash,

skin - raspberried from sweeping the concrete

with my knees.

I unfurl the flag,

emerging from the tumultuous cocoon

of your cannon fire.

The colors fly - dancing with the bullets

in the summer soaked breeze.

I can just make out the haze of the gate

through the thick smoke pouring

from your tempered chest.

A smirk flirts with the corners of my mouth;

The resolute defense of the ruinous gloom

you will carry in dingy bags

made from the cloth of superiority.

I will feast upon a slice of cake

in the golden glow of morning.