Scotties Bad Dream

Wandering around Burning land. It’s red and black, bleak and orange not green and gold.
Trying to find someone to talk to
He’s sure he heard that Burning brush speaks.
He believes it does, so he reaches out his hand to the first one he sees, it was quiet.
Burning brush doesn’t just speak.
Burning brush beats a drum willing the weeds to writhe and the rest to rest.
The Burning brush stings and scolds him as he reaches out, but feeling nothing he grips tighter and shakes it with no emotion, so powerless, his tears couldn’t stop an ember if they came out in floods.
They couldn’t nourish this dried dying land because the empathy used to create them was paid for with stolen time and the work of others
His hands are on fire but he can only smell the sizzling of flesh
He can’t feel anything,
a hard maroon cricket ball flies past, he swings but there’s no ding and it hits the stumps of a logged tree, powerless.
His great aunt floats by on a 10 dollar bill telling him that he’s a disgrace, so he goes to shake her hand but sets her on fire with that Burning brush.
That Burning brush defines him now,
It beats a drum willing the weeds to writhe and the rest to rest.

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