Graves in the Shape of Guns

They said the war was over. But no one told the bones in my hands. They still wake up fighting. Still twitch when the wind smells like cordite. Still remember the names I buried in load screens. Hell, maybe I outlived 'em all… Or maybe I'm just too damn mean to follow. Ash on my collar, rust on my creed, Carved my initials where angels don't bleed. I’ve danced with the silence, I’ve wept with the blind, Left graves in the shape of the ghosts I outshined. So strike up the hymn for the cracked and the cursed, For the hearts that beat backward, for the dying that thirst. I bled out my youth on a trigger too tight— Now I fight like a prayer that forgot how to light. The stars don’t salute me, they just flicker and fade, Tired of stories this relic has made. But the shadows still follow the sound of my boots, And the dead still remember which gun laid their roots. What’s left of a man when the war never ends? Just the twitch of a finger… and a list of dead friends. But I wear every scar like a medal of spite— And grin at the dawn ‘cause it ain’t won the fight. So raise up a glass to the bastard that crawls, Through ashes and echoes, through widows and walls. You won’t see me fall, but you’ll hear me combust. Name etched in legend… Sir Wrinklebutt.