Pack a butter knife for my trip to the jungle
There are sweet lights ahead
Fresh, wild hope left to wrangle
No longer good, hunting stars at an angle
With not one ounce of cold dread
Pack a butter knife for my trip to the jungle
No longer nice, father, son, the triangle
No berry drinks over dry bread
Fresh, wild hope left to wrangle
No longer sweet, all their malice untangled
Nothing left on my forehead
Pack a butter knife for my trip to the jungle
No longer smiling, awake though nearly strangled
Blind, bound, and made numb, every moment misled
Fresh, wild hope left to wrangle
Stack my wrists with gold bangles
All my fears have been bled
Pack a butter knife for my trip to the jungle
Fresh, wild hope left to wrangle
Photo by Chris Abney on Unsplash
