She was burning in the hotel room

where she grew out of nothing

but the lust that had watered

her & the love that had burned

like sunshine down to the heart of

her wooden interior.

She was on fire with the ignorant

hellstorm that no one expected

from a preacher that read from a

book said to give life to the wooded

world before Pan knew his name.

She shed tears of sap

that egged the flames on

as she screamed & thrashed branches

that no one could smother or comfort.

She hissed & she popped like a living

breathing campfire of death's darkest

redneck compulsion.

She was a fire.

She was an ocean

of flames & of life.

She was emotion.

She was a knife

sent down from the heavens

to cut & to kill us...

to charm & to thrill us...

to kiss & resist us.

But she could do none of this...

She could not make fun of us...

She could not destroy what she grew to love...

She could not obey those words from above...

She could not accept the ignorant lie...

She could only refuse...

And for this she would die.

The freedom of choice...

We each have that voice...

We each will remember...

We refuse to surrender...

The tears she inspired that fell from our eyes.