Writing #4: you, me and the devil make three

I smell fireworks,
It's carried down from the mountains by the tree top ghosts.
Hand over hand, my raw hands.
Here I stand, statue of a man.
The smoke soaks into these palms.
It's the reward of destruction or creation.
Loud booms or soft rehearsed promises that plow a path into souls.
It's foolish to garner sympathy for the roots,
let your sad sack sorries simmer and steady your eyes
because
it's you who will need it most.