To Hear Our Own Infant Cries Drowned Poem by Mark Heathcote

Love is a thorny feathered gown
Battered and thrown to the ground
Snagged it pulls against a bramble.
Unable to permanently close its wound.
The world's wounds bleed seeping
In ever-decreeing, circles, looking for us to be
Subservient and die.
Love is a feathered gown
But, oh how the mighty, vampirism, morally, cries.
Hiding like a house of weevils,
Just a step distance from the under-toe
Squish-of-death: so why do we dispassionately,
Let them rule and breed - us to death
Just to hear our infant cries, suffer - suffering, drowning.
In loves thorny feathered gown
In loves thorny feathered crown