Pseudopsychosis.

The walls are bleeding by the south terrace
  running down the chapel of Santa Andronicus
the colour of walled flowers that grow
  the large weeping petals of the hibiscus

Running livid across the painted white bricks 
  those painted, once were the colour of cinnamon
beside grasses bowed like mourners weep
  and where a helmet lays, two black holes staring

A parade of stuck mothers, blood-spattered brothers
  torn nightdress, tear-stained lovers, corpses silent
moving the awkward path blood follows down a rendered wall
  snaking the bond of bricklayers lines, his shrapnel trowel

War in the afternoon, smoking fires are burning fervidly
  its payload wrought angry, its payback stained history
rebels, guerrillas, soldiers of fortune, of might or of glory
  loss rationalised, convictions quaterised by crimsoned mud

We seek to balance an august moon atop a Matterhorn
  square up the finest order of nature without atonement
without compromise, only madmen's sighs mid ideology
  alone nature weeps, guardian crows the executers 

Who clear away the bodies, tie the flags low, remember
  who exchange your smile for piles of shit-brown guile
overgrown death yards where the lazy cats still piss upon us
  armouries choking the bonfires of our burning emotion

Given to this shame we fashion, indignant we all rise
  discard our jesters eyes, turn ploughshares into knives
broadswords, guns, anarchised of reason, despised
  roll dice in war-game arenas, still shun cowardly demeanour


                                            ©edenbraytoday17.07.2021

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