All the Fireworks at Once

Instead of painting,

I could throw buckets of paint at you;

crowd my words into a single squeal

and call it a song,

call it a day,

call it a year.

All the fireworks at once.

Was I honest, naive or stupid

in relinquishing structure?

Lazy,

or just painfully unable

of the cunning

that was the key to your heart?

Talentless?

All the fireworks at once.

"Was that it?"

"Is it over?"

"Is it really?"

As you walk towards the next

storyteller

and his improvised stage,

fawning over at the props,

with a sore craving for cadence

and tempo.