They never used to burn the books.
In fact the firemen never started
the fires either, instead they
fought to save the house, and its innards.
So the owners had something to go back too,
instead of nothing at all but the
asylums they were forced to dwell.
I remember those times, and
regret it now, that I hadn’t fought
for the knowledge concealed within
the pages of those precious books, instead
I let it slip away,
and melt with the thousand
or so fires that had already been set,
watch many a book burn and the knowledge
reduced to ash.
And for what?
To pacify the people?
To dumb them down so conflict couldn’t arise,
so knowledge would belong to those who run the country?

I pretended not to care, to have my mind stuck,
like the rest, like a sieve in the sand, even though
each fire that burned bright on my small television screen,
meant death to each learned piece of knowledge that
meant nothing to the people who used to have brains.

I pretended not to care,
even though inside I charred
with the books and longed to see what the pages contained,
that people had jilted such a long time ago.
I cannot be credited with trying to reclaim the world we once owned.
A world full of knowledge and communication,
a world were conflict was a daily part of life.
It’s people like Montag and the rest of the rebels who will rebuild the city.
Re-teach those who had been brainwashed,
into thinking for themselves once again.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I sit in the dark
listening to the sirens howl in the distance,
and helicopter blades rumble
not even a mile away.
This gives me some hope,
that Montag is still alive, if they are scouring the city.
But I have a hunch with the way Montag is,
they will sooner find someone to blame,
than catching the real Guy Montag.
Poor sap who gets blamed for something
that shouldn’t be considered a crime.

What a mess Montag has made for himself, and his wife!
Daring to read those books in front of those illiterate
persuaded women! How brave Montag is,
daring to teach them to learn, but how, foolish.
Foolish Montag!
They will send the hound to descend upon
him like a scorpion hunting its prey.
His wife has already left him, I heard her
through the radio.
Poor Montag.
Poor stupid Montag!
The Fool.
I wring my hands,
hear the helicopter blades draw near,
and then fade away.
Like my heart beat rising and falling like helicopter blades.


Knock.


Knock


Knock

Silence falls in my chest as my
heart skips a beat,
sirens wail in the distance
and the helicopter searches from
the sky above.
And.
He’s.
Outside.
My.
Door.

What should I do?
Open the door, let him in,
pray to whatever forces maybe that
I can survive the fallout?
Run for the back door hope to
God they don’t find me
with the hound that see’s nothing
but everyone as the adversary.
Let it pierce my heart instead
of Montag’s so he has a chance
to teach the world to embrace knowledge.

Tick Tock, Montag knocks
and still I don’t move, not even an inch,
and my heart runs like a race horse on a Track.
Beating like a drum, so many choices.
Should I stay,
should I go?
Sit here like a dead weight,
pretend I’m deaf to the knocks outside my door?

What would you do, if our roles were reversed,
would you run and hide,
or be brave and go
against the tide? When everyone goes right,
could I be brave like Montag and those few men who dare go left?
Choices.
Choices.
Choices.
Life is full of tough and informal choices,
but hadn’t I made mine years and years ago,
to stick to Societies rules, even if I didn’t agree with them?
Should I tell Montag to give up, turn himself in, this fight is not for us, even if he’ll die tonight?
Just what is the definition of duplicity?

Or should I be brave, change my choices,
stand behind my words, be the man Montag thinks I am.
My brain says no, my heart says go,
stand and fight for what used to be right.
Stand for those who, like myself, crave knowledge,
whose thirst is in insatiable stand for those who have already lost the battle, whose books have perished in flame,
for those who spend days counting away in the Asylums.
They chose to be brave, to not stand with the Societies’ claims that every man, women, and child have to be the same.
And still I don’t move, not an inch.

I don’t know what to do, I thought if I had the chance to change the world,
I’d jump on the band wagon with the rest, and I wouldn’t look back.
I’d stand tall and proud, with those few who share my views.
But, words and actions are different in retrospect,
when faced with something you thought would never happen words are just words, aren’t they?
Words with letters and spaces, meanings and knowledge, the power to hurt, or imprison. Words that used to mean so much to this world,
and even unspoken, promises and vows that mean nothing now without the actions I thought I’d do. Three minutes, four,
still Montag stands at my door,
what should I do?

Should I help him?
Send him away to the mercy of the people
who just want a show?
Where could I go?
If I chose to leave would I regret it?
Could I survive the fallout of my choice?
Years ago I wouldn’t have second guessed what I would do,
than again all these years I could have done something,
swam against the tide of lies the Society fed us.
I guess it should have been a clue, that I had done nothing,
but watched those brave souls
die for my cowardice.

Slowly, slowly I rise out of my well-worn chair, and trudge to the door,
and pause like a man stepping up to the gallows.
Inhaling freely one last time, I open the door to find the man
who should have been me, coming to Montag for aid.
Montag stands before me now, a youth wild in his fears
with the realization that whatever he does now,
will never be the same.
Whatever happened in the last few months is his past, he will never get that back. This is his future.
Our future.

Life is full of choices,
years ago I thought I made mine,
to stay a good man, to do whatever I could
to not get into the spot light of the Society.
Yet the definition of hypocrisy is the pretense of having admirable principle even if I don’t believe in what they preach.

There are choices.
Everything’s a choice. We choose what we want for breakfast.
We choose who to talk too.
Who we love, what’s important.
Where we go, in a day.
But those choices are the mundane.

What about the bigger choices?
The one’s that impact
every living thing in the planet.
What about the consequences, my choices bring about?
Can I live with tomorrow knowing
whatever happens in this very second
will impact every day?
And beyond that?
Can I live with fallout of my choices?
More importantly can I look back, and know for certain,
I can live without regret,
for the greater good?

I thought I knew the answers.
Thought I would be among the leaders.
Instead here stands Montag, a ready soldier,
now that I’ve given him the key.

There’s so many questions,
and never enough answers, what is right, what is wrong,
depends on the perspective.
In truth, there can never be any answers
to the things I have asked myself over the years.
Only choices, and so far I have regretted mine,
wondered if I had taken the road
so seldom taken, would I had found
my paradise?

In a way I made my choice years ago,
laid down instead of defied,
the choice was mine, I made my future
and chose to except the consequences.
I did nothing, and now I am left to wonder what if?
It doesn’t matter now, I am old, getting closer
to the grave every second.
But, Guy Montag has a chance, and a future,
he just needed they key to see
How different everything used to be, when knowledge
was free, in a way I had a part in his pilgrimage,
but will not even be remembered
“if” not when he succeeds.
Because I had made my choice long ago, anything I do now, won’t change the past, but at least now I can change the future
if not for me, but maybe for the next generation.


I pack two bags, one full of dirty clothes.
To give Montag a chance, to find the rebels with someone else’s baggage. To disguise his scent, from the hound, who’s out for Montag’s blood.
Montag who raced through town planting many books in other fireman’s house,
to plant the seed of doubt in everyone’s mind.
Maybe the fireman weren’t as innocent as they seemed,
only if they knew Montag fooled them.

And I take the other bag
heft it on my shoulders, and with showing Montag the rest of my secrets that I’ll never see again, our parting is bitter sweet.

I should go with him, discover more knowledge.
I should be brave, and run off into the freedom lands.
But I will have only a small part in the new world
and maybe Montag will mention me.

Montag goes left and I run off in the other direction, feet thumping.
Heart pumping like helicopter blades. And this time when I look back,
at the city, the lights, the idiotic people with brainwashed minds,
what ever happens now it rests on Montag’s shoulders.
And maybe, just maybe this time around,
I made the right choice.