Little Explosions

History books were written with sand-dipped javelins,
In the hubristic monotony of the anarchist’s tone,
Over the contrasting interlards of presidential debates,
By world wars waged over the telephone

But when jubilantly recreational little explosions smirked,
Encasing time’s profusely bleeding hinges,
With all our hearts pounding in their bodily prisons,
And with all our souls trapped in metallic syringes

Our bodies jostled between the much heated borders,
Of a future untraveled and a past deserted -
And beads of propitious perspiration on our faces,
The tear-drenched history books then squirted.

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