Paint my face greyer than October mists
With the lightning bolts you strike
From your angry fists.
Dance around the subject when they ask
Whether exiling me
Was an easy task.
But never submit an answer worth their wait
So I keep being the last thing
On your plate.
A scandal or two won’t break a “good man”.
But if I play the cards wrong
They won’t understand.
And they’ll wonder where I went off the rails
When I accepted freedom
With all that it entails.
The next time you see me, call me an enemy.
Let my grey face fade
From your memory.
We’ll just play two strangers for everlong
As their thunderstorms
Paint the story all wrong.
The Daily Writing of Jackie Wright 