The fireman there dressed in black
With a helmet hiding his shame
They've hidden their words from ageless sages
But he can smell their decaying pages
Spilled ink is old and unimportant they say
It's contagious pages are flammable
For one second he reads the ancient script
Mesmerized by ghosts from the crypt
He collects the books to earn his paycheck
Weeps silently behind his mask of lost humanity
Building a fire with his blowtorch
He's sickened by praise from his cohorts
He hangs his head in his pitifully gray home
and remembered his grandfather's Holy Bible
The hidden truth between the ancient lines
Truth that hangs from a broken spine
The talking faces from an electronic scroll
Hanging from the plastered wall
Repeats lies between razor blades
Invading lies buried within its rays
He keeps an eye on the glowing eye
That surveys his every move
The dark faceless ****** creeps into his life
Even as he sleeps beside his wife
He closes his eyes in search of his Creator
But He's hiding or busy or dead
There must be others who search like me
Who are praying for serenity
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 4:37 PM UTC
The fireman there dressed in black
With a helmet hiding his shame
They've hidden their words from ageless sages
But he can smell their decaying pages
Spilled ink is old and unimportant they say
It's contagious pages are flammable
For one second he reads the ancient script
Mesmerized by ghosts from the crypt
He collects the books to earn his paycheck
Weeps silently behind his mask of lost humanity
Building a fire with his blowtorch
He's sickened by praise from his cohorts
He hangs his head in his pitifully gray home
and remembered his grandfather's Holy Bible
The hidden truth between the ancient lines
Truth that hangs from a broken spine
The talking faces from an electronic scroll
Hanging from the plastered wall
Repeats lies between razor blades
Invading lies buried within its rays
He keeps an eye on the glowing eye
That surveys his every move
The dark faceless ****** creeps into his life
Even as he sleeps beside his wife
He closes his eyes in search of his Creator
But He's hiding or busy or dead
There must be others who search like me
Who are praying for serenity
RIP Ray Bradbury, June 6, 2012
