by Nick Gisburne
You’re wounded, but you’re breathing, still. Get up.
A shock, a setback, changes nothing. Fight.
Whatever filthy future fills your cup,
In every crack and corner there is light.
A thousand angels, screaming at your soul,
Will bend to one unconquerable heart.
Your banner burns, but raise it. Seize control,
Or see your dreams, defenceless, peeled apart.
They call you craven, coward. Is it true?
The sum of words and whispers, rumours, lies.
And yet, they fear the storm of shadows: you,
The dream, the darkness, nobody denies.
If evil is to seize and stake its place,
Get up. Reveal the fury in your face.
