Like the tide, they seemed strong, promised warmth and washed back out when the waves got too high.
There are few movements that have lasted as long as the relentless rebels that have bled green to remove the red.
Jigsaws of resistance, Imperfectly placed on an Irish map.
The beard and his slaves tried to sell us a dream that they never dreamed of delivering.
Instead they let the brave and bold be pawns.
Noting without struggle is worth a spit.
The leviathan of morals has no depths.
Amnesia and the selective, the ones without a single thing in their temple.
You robbed volunteers of victory, in life and in the dark dungeons of death.
The families that were but fodder for inflated figments of fallacies, phoneys (sic) and frauds.
The legacy of freedom looms, not for suits, politicians or pretenders.
Appoint a woman that couldn't wash the feet of the fallen.
Anne, Mairead, Marion and Nuala.
You have no business beside the women that never wavered.
The metamorphosis is complete, the incredulous has happened.
Take off your mask and the pictures that you paint on one of your faces.
I wonder who you really are?
A spook in a suit?
A seller of smashed stories, eaten up, spat out and repackaged.
I don't blame you though, you were allowed to drool on the dead.
The same way Martin was.
Nice glass of wine with the ones that you now kneel to.
Betrayal is always found in glasses, pockets and poisonous people that piss on our dead.
Touts and traitors, bloody whispers that complicity murdered out martyrs.
And you call us dissidents.
➽Conor Lynam is a Dublin Republican