The War of a Current

Light me up like birthday candles,
and make me feel better about the meaning of this brightness,

set me on fire and sear everything but the last layer of my epidermis,
and then cut right through that to my bone,

and when you removed the femur,
I would have cries of writhing, writhing pain,

Take your turnkey and find my belly button,
although it no longer exists,

push it through my innards and then put it up the lazy river of my intestines,
just so I could open my eyes a little wider that day

Light me up like bulbs,
full of promises,
but mainly the promise of an expiration date,

and then call all of this your idea,
like the bulb itself,
like its maker,
like its taker