Drafted

The bow of your head as you quickly look away.
The silence. deafening with all you will not say.
The condescending way you discount my unease.
Your crude belief there would be no casualties.
To renounce me, to that grown-up battlefield.
With nothing but my kite to use for shield.
And now you wish to call me the Black Sheep
Well, I will not be the child destined for defeat.
I am the remnant of all that you have woven.
And still, I stand, never to be broken.