Not a scratch on my body as I crawl off the battlefield,
And you might be after me,
But my spite is a jester’s shield.
I suck in the smoke coming from heavy machinery.
No one dares to shoot first
Except for you and your apologies.
Seven angels stare me down and spit on my dirty feet,
But I know they don’t mean it
If they don’t want to fight thirty fleets.
I have the force of an uncouth god looking for a legacy,
And you’re the grey prophet,
Drowning me in green fantasies.
Which one of us started this descent into travesty?
Which one will erase the lines?
Who will sweat out some honesty?
As you bring me to light, I grit my own bloody teeth,
And you might be the champion,
But there are no saints left here.
-Jackie
The Daily Writing of Jackie Wright 