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Campfire Stories

Campfire Stories

So many campfire tales
we tell
while gathered around
bonfired book barbeques
The stories burn
while the meaning of irony is never truly lost

Those desired tales
are now in a fire that's burning in you,
but I guess that's the price you pay for not knowing the cost

If the books could talk,
they'd say
"Lets leave 'em blooded in their own barbarity"
But we could never have it that way,
for they've always needed us to speak

And regrettably so,
for we don't do it with any clarity
All the things we say
only end wind up weak

And in weakness, none-
no strength has come,
only disparity
Wisdom in tomes
trapped in your home on the shelf

Continually bound
confinably down
and only emancipated in rarity,
but the meaning's lost
as it's a sin to swear allegiance to thyself

And so we're seated around
a bonfired book barbeque
The stories are bound
as we've found them burned in you

And on the verge of changing
all we savagely do,
the stories were bound
to be found in you

But all I savagely knew
is that I could recall a gentler time
A time so unlike this time of mine

But it doesn't matter now
as we sit around
all we've so ruinously wreaked
All we do is sit around
and wait for the next to speak

These are not books, lumps of lifeless paper, but minds alive on the shelves. From each of them goes out its own voice, as inaudible as the streams of sound conveyed by electric waves beyond the range of our hearing; and just as the touch of button on our stereo will fill the room with music, so by opening one of these volumes, one can call into range a voice far distant in time and space, and hear it speaking, mind to mind, heart to heart. - Gilbert Highet