It’s a race against who paints a picture faster
with more venom and more stealth;
It’s a race against who tarnishes who,
stoking resentment and destroying her fading health.
It’s a love affair with the fire
that burns the wilderness down;
the charring and the singeing of her roots
and the breaking of her crown.
It’s a rising from the ashes
to kneel reluctantly before the King;
her knees are bruised and weeping,
but her voice will surely sing.