Fugitive

Running on empty
While caught in your cross hair
At my wits end
When for you its only the beginning

Baring my soul indecent exposure
Vulnerability in an open field

I take a breath as you reload

Screaming at the top of my lungs
Through what seems to be laryngitis

Completely alone in bad company

Weapons all ablaze while my light apparently dimming
Taking aim on my fragile state
Cunning actions your barrage of bullets

Faith drapes over me like a suit of armor
Wearing it with pride
Perfect fit