grind-the-rust

We’re cut from simple cloth We tatter quickly Anger unfurls me like a blazoned flag O grant me love enough To curl in kindness The flapping corners of this threadbare rag To fold away this senseless Shouting symbol This raging brightness billowed by the blast Too partisan, too crude To be a beacon Born of the storm, unworthy of the mast Let me be worn instead On shivering shoulders Or drape me over sleep, that it be sound If somewhere blood is shed Then let my fabric Be bandages with which the wounds are bound We’re cut from simple cloth We fray too quickly The sky is hard to see for all the flags So grant me love enough To curl