When the heretics speak

Amidst this lingering madness,
I plant the seed of optimism,
growing into numerous vines of white and yellow
red blood gushing through tired veins
till it falls
spent but valued.

But who more to live for but yourself,
and for the smiles of many, hungry men?

And the voices of many a authority,
whispering thunders of proclamation
drowning your elephant ears
Bellowing in the gentle breeze?

And the whispers of the dead
silently beneath the cold pressed soil
yearning a turn of the shovel
so as to breathe the fresh country air
wafting green and green over
whilst people toil in grey
repeated patterns quiver a monotonous heartbeat
A single continuum of blue
as red gushes into the green soil above
and into hungry, little mouths of the Fathers
with ne'er a rectum

But many mouths
all chanting the same tune.

Smiling.