He believed it was the truth
What he found was a lie,
He held the cross on his shoulder
Carried like a burden,
Soon he would be free once again
From this lie,
In the ground he hammered it
And the books were ripped,
Each page of ink no longer to read
He was going to be free,
From this lie,
The pages all torn, gathered around the base
A match lit,
Words,
Ink,
Paper,
Wood,
Now alight he felt him self free,
It blazed, smoke like a cloud in the sky
Not dark, but white, pure,
He was ridding him self of a burden
And when all was ash,
He looked upon it, what once pulled him down
Now but ash and dust, I believe in one thing my self,
Creation is life's doing, now I am free to live mine.