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We, lie, in the cafeteria, after, the infirmary,
like, the three fleeting feathers, of;
fought-for, freedom,
fought-for, fairness,
and, fought-for, future.
That, forcedly flew,
from, the open palm, of perjury.

The tarot cards, of today,
lie; torn, ill distribted and deathly,
like, unstitched mouths of prey,
under feet; broad, flat and hefty,
trampled upon, yet, with nothing, to say,
but, to whisper, nothingness, bereftly.

Each, feather, once belonged, ungot;
to, a plumage, of the three, winged-sisters,
The, long-feared, Mór-ríoghan, but, they, were,
brought down, with, modern missiles,
then, laid, on, a robust rotisserie of unrest,
when, at Yuletide, got mistaken, for turkeys,
whilst, they, were, plucked and primed, for the pot.

Our, final flight, has, lost it’s way,
darkness, lays eggs, for, four-and-twenty,
as, the clockwork hours, plummet, into grey,
the cockpit, lies, barren, lame and empty,
there’s, no; fiery bellies or dragons, left, to slay,
despite, eight, final words, from, the corpse, of, King Henry:

“…feel myself, I will advise upon the matter…”

We, are, now, Apathy, we feel, nothing, at all,
and, we, no longer, flutter, or, even, matter,
our will, can’t; advise us how to fall,
when, our three feathers, have, forcedly flown, then, scattered,
they, can’t, pluck us from the skies, or, cuckoo, or, even, caw,
as, we; descend, disembark, and, are, finally, splattered…

…alongside; pride, avarice and gall.

© poormansdreams

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