Black not the color of fawnish mourning

Naught but flag for surrendering

Great throes of peace are wasted on me

White

Wiped clean

With innocence

I carry a distaste

For the taste of olives

And am no more dignified

Than a common pigeon

Wings flap clumsily

Shot down easily

So fetching to

Fletching

Holes in wings where feathers should be

Dipped in crimson ink bloody

Feathers for quills to sign treaties