Burn the Brush

Another poem concerning a strange story. Inspired by a dear friend of mine.

Burn the brush.

That’s what I was told.

Burn the books, the things of old.

Burn it all.

Set fire to the barn.

Use flames to tear down the rustic walls.

Let embers glow.

Let the fire be seen from the faraway road.

The books, they lie.

Let smoke choke and congest the sky.

At least, that’s what I was told.

Should I be brave...should I be bold?

I know the ones who told me are really the ones that lie.

They tell me so many things, and their lies multiply.

I will not do this.

This fire will not mean bliss.

Ignorance is weakness,

it is not true happiness.

I raise the pistol to my temple.

It clicks and my body trembles.

The gunshot’s ring

and the fire’s sting

are all that’s left to hear or see,

the barn rose up in flames,

but the voices,

they died with me.

Author's Note

I am open to any kind of criticism, whether it be harsh or otherwise. If you have any questions about this poem, any of my other poems, or a question about me in general, feel free to ask.