Poem

The Burning House

I started out normally enough.
Not plain to a fault; not too much fluff.

Three floors and a roof balcony there.
I trusted no one would fall. And I care.

On the day I was to be no more,
Moe, Jesse, and Joe had a whore.

They brought her to the roof deck for their party.
The boys became very rough, and quite naughty.

The prostitute’s name had been Gwendolyn Shaye.
No one cared that she and her friend had made

A promise that tonight was to be the end.
No more hooking. They would start to mend

Their lives and hearts to begin quite fresh.
But, instead… Gwendolyn’s harsh death.

When the idiots had seen what they had done,
They decided to go and get more rum

To use as an accelerant, to torch all of this.
Beginning to pour, he then took a piss.

I saw the fire headed straight for me.
I’m a house, so I could not flee.

I prayed to God to send forth rain,
Or even to show that my weathervane

Was turning the wind in another direction,
Sparing me from the fire’s detection.

However, it wasn’t meant to be.
I felt the heat on my paint… and screamed!

The boys were watching me in my pain,
Not looking around us all at the bane.

In their drunkenness, they stood
In the path of the fire.  If sober, they would

Not have killed Gwendolyn Shaye.
Would not have made a fiery fade.

So they were the reason that we all died.
And now, I most happily abide

As a piece of reclaimed wood on a wall;
A decorative piece that does enthrall.

In the end, I gained new life,
No longer a part of their strife.

– Vanja LaVoie