The bell rang we headed to a call
An old woman was standing just inside the door
The police were supposed to take her away
Now she stands in the empty house with her stares and nothing to say

Her presence has made me upset
We were not supposed to feel ashamed of burning
And as I find more books to throw into the flame
I temporarily loose my mind and I take a hidden book away

We pumped the rooms full of kerosene
The woman would not move from her stance of accusation
Beatty tried to force her into flight
But she slowly extended her hand to reveal an unlit match

We backed away
She stood and glared in condemnation

And what should I make of this?
Do I cry, Do I smile, Do I sit in apprehension?
What power do these books possess?
What will I tell my wife when she sees my new acquisition?