An Offering of Poppies
His family stays after the burial of his body. They linger at his grave site, each one lost in their own thoughts of the beautiful young man who gave his life for them and for country. Each one remembers their own special moments with this man whose potential had once seemed so boundless.
To the war he was forced to go despite his abhorrence for violence and despite the foreboding that followed him there to that crazy place where sanity was forsaken amidst pandemonium. At times he stood among sentries whose occasional shots into the dark reverberated beneath a pall of dread and uncertainty. At other times he witnessed inconceivable horror as blood-sprayed children wailed, kneeling over the torn bodies of their siblings or parents. Long after he had returned to his post, their cries would linger in his mind throughout the night. Sometimes he was forced to take part in random missions of attacks though he rarely pulled the trigger on his gun. He did not have to go often into chaos because, sadly, the blast of a bomb claimed his life early on.
Crimson his blood spilled onto the ground that day as the clamor all around him faded away. . . His mother now lays an offering of bright red poppies on his grave.
utter peacefulness
where his broken body rests. . .
the sentries are trees
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