Skylan knew he might be unable to log on this evening, so he gave me the names and ask that I announce them at the proper time.
510bhan, or Sio as some call her, won with her poem . . .
Fahrenheit 451
It’ll burn, draw gray-winged night flitters
to orange blades slicing the darkness,
while fascination and curiosity flickers
in the saucered eyes of mesmerised onlookers.
No wood required, just a match, a hot coal,
or a flick of a Bic throw-away lighter will suffice,
leather bound paper is tinder enough
to create smoke and flames, to ignite and incense
academics, the literati, intelligentsia and the common man
whose words and learning leave pages in wispy coils.
They’ll burn, draw headlines in history again
until opinions smoulder in sooty blood or crinkled ink
and frightened realisation settles like ashen clumps.
Fire glints in their horrified gaze as another bonfire is made.
