Pin a heart on us, the living;
We, the unmoving.
The deceased have more breath
Than our breathing.
Emblems of our emptiness
Puncturing hunger’s sleeve with
Cackling our minute’s final gasp
Weak idols pinned to proud chests,
Pin sweet thoughts upon the dull,
Of gluttony, empire, warfare
Whilst our children die for those
Let us begin anew with this; the worlds
© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman