is there solace in idle conviction?
what brought us here to begin with?
among the ruins of a crippled empire,
our fingers scramble at crumbs of redemption,
hand bruised and bleeding,
the blood under my nails will stain, and collect,
we aren’t heroes any longer,
were we ever?
tragedy’s of firelight and flesh,
hands like these, they shake, fingers twitch
they remember what they’ve done,
knuckles of spite,
unholy sacraments of broken bodies,
watch our fathers shake fickle fists at calloused deities,
watch our mothers fold flags with their trembling fingers,
what use do we have for feeble hymns of wasted faith?
our names written in sordid songs of feeble glory,
but look at us,
look at us.
our hands ready the cannons,
they clutch our dying brothers,
our fingers pull the triggers,
they bury our friends,
these hands, these hands,
by JADE RAWLINGS