If You’re Going To Burn Me



In your pocket, an ancient tree
You swing so hard
My jaw has fallen
At your feet

I take a cheap fountain pen
And let it weep foolish tears
With hope you are amused
For this day

I know you are going to burn me
With only my aging hands to stop you

And they won’t

I shake and tremble, enraged at innocence
Because I have none any more
Just corrupt history

So as you burn me
(and I think you will)
I will wrap my weakness in this poem
I will breathe the smoke, deeply

Text and Images © Andrew Auten – All Rights Reserved

Photos taken in Texas  and New Mexico.