WHITE FEATHER FALLOPIAN

In the desert of your eyes
In the emptiness of your heart
Between the rock and the sky
In the gallows of your thought
As the thirst within your throat
Lives the white feather
Dies the peace together

Into the vortex of the void
Upon the insignia of your collar
Is the flower of the forever
By the flag of the destroyed

A crucifixion curse of commemoration
Choking in the fog of soul demention
The rack of the tongue
On the neck of the young
Flies filling corpses
Bodies burnt fleshless
Anthems of betrayal pro patria mori
They’re dead, can’t speak, can they?

Only on Remembrance Sunday
When the duke of Edinburgh and Charlie boy don their medals
To pay homage to a far off war
But last Sunday war come home
In a coffin decorated with the union jack

But from the dying
After the worms and in the air
An insolence indignance
An incitement resilience
From the wounds of knowledge
We find the knowledge of wounds,
An incendiary creation
From bullets, guns, shells and swords,
The white feather grows
From the mouths of graves
From the arteries of the dispossessed
Into the the minds of the defenceless
Through the sand of the desert
To the mud of the trenches
The soliloquies of the Somme
The verses of Verdun
The elegies of Iraq
And the prayers of Paschendaele
The white feather speaks from the poppy fields
From the chiselled cenotaph concretia
Next to the waves of white crosses
The tired bookshelves
They will not die
They refuse to fly fly away
They will not be hidden
A white feather fallopian
A new emblem
a silent anthem
In the darkest night
The whitest dawn
The bleeding truth
The ancient agony
From eyes myopian
In countries utopian
The versus the hatred the us the them
For in the against
Colourless and borderless
A white feather fallopian,