Shiver me crimson,
shiver me bones.
I'm choking on the dust
of lives I've never known.
I devour the pictures
of a past that should be mine,
and live with the aftershocks
of an earthquake I wasn't born for.
It's like coming home
to a nation at war.
Children are the casulties,
and my hands, though armed, useless.
I send my voice to heaven.
I hope for help from a lord
that has always failed me.
I bite my lip and pray.
I pray to Saint Jude.
The patron saint of the hopeless.
And I pray to Saint Michael,
to carry me to battle.
To battle on his wings
shall I come.
Copyright 2003 dark_sister
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