I am the bones whitewashed in the sun,

the red-blooded ink of an Old World

visa faded, crumbled into careless history.

 

I am the picket fence I made others paint,

dividing lands and neighbors, always

taking the bigger half for myself.

 

I am the fine print,

the fountain sign,

 

the redline,

the badge

 

and the wall.

 

I am the false hope in a harbor,

the false memory of glory on a hill

you sent your children to die on.

 

Tonight, I am the story you tell yourself

before you kiss your gun goodnight.

 

 

.