Pin a heart on us, the living;
We, the unmoving.
The deceased have more breath
Than our breathing.
Emblems of our emptiness
And weakness
Puncturing hunger’s sleeve with
Dreary brooch.
Cackling our minute’s final gasp
With warring,
Weak idols pinned to proud chests,
Unfilled, all.
Pin sweet thoughts upon the dull,
Not pennants
Of gluttony, empire, warfare
And oil.
Whilst our children die for those
Already dead
Let us begin anew with this; the worlds
Flagless living.
© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman
