Night falls and we drive
Until lights burst in the sky
It's not a dream
It's the Fourth
The van stops
Don't know where exactly
We don't really care
The colors fizzle and bang
It's more fun after the good stuff
Is brought out from the back
The colors become shapes
That dance through the sky
And pounce on the moon
And eat all the stars
Hold the fire in our hands
At the ends of our sparklers
For the night
We are hardcore Americans
Who leave off the A with our faked
Southern accents
His shorts are the flag
And we laugh into our bottles
American alcoholic druggies
And we like it that way
-alice
YOU ARE READING
Wonderland
PoesíaShe wanders, lost in wonder. She falls in and falls out. Loses days and nights and friends. Bottles. Ashes. Echoes of laughter left in her wake. She is no one, without even a capital letter to her name. She is alice.
