It needs polishing.

Evie: This is what happens when things start to settle down and I get bored.  

It’s a christian’s knees
Black and blue, bruised
In belief and tearful prayer
For wisdom to hit all they know

It’s a Pagan’s wax scarred fingertips
Pleading to all that is sacred
That when words can be used, they work
And when the bullets have to fly
the aim is sure and true.

It’s not a piece of fabric with 50 stars
of arbitrary lines that you can’t see from space
It’s wood pulp and ink
that were argued over vehemently
that if caught the authors would have lost their lives

It’s blood from busted blisters on tired hands
from laying railroad tracks across the land
the sweat from the brow of someone
who busts out hours underneath a car repair rack
It’s the kid down the street who mows lawns all summer
It’s the grandpa in a faded old photograph
wearing a Class A uniform

It’s not some woven piece of thread
That’s made here rarely
It’s the bastard children of a rebellion
that can’t remember where we came from anymore

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