Every single piece of armor,
each working against the other,
threatening to crush him
or pull him apart,
hanging in unsteady balance,
teetering at the edge of chaos.
a little more coal for the engine.
Protect the unborn!
I’ll shoot you dead if you come for my liberty!
I vote by the Book
But I don’t turn the other cheek—Don’t Tread On Me.
Jesus and John Galt are coming for me.
They’ll bicker the whole way down,
raging, angry, avenging brothers,
the fire they built burning out of control, scorching the middle,
singeing their hair,
its light shining harsh truth
everywhere but on his face.
Until they arrive, he is safe.
His truck is thick with these scales,
every single piece of armor
proclaiming what he knows:
He is right, right, right, right, right.