“’til all hell blooms“
It starts at a street‑corner park
—one match flicked wrong,
and the whole block tastes brimstone.
Kids stop mid‑kick of a half‑flat ball,
dogs stiffen,
old men lift their brows
—they’ve heard this tune before.
Then sky goes a bad fruit colour,
as every window leans to glare.
Still—
—someone laughs,
sharp snapping twigs,
and in that moment the world decides
to bloom the only way it knows how:
wild, unruly,
bright as a dare.
.
