Blood-stained poppies
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A poem for remembrance Sunday
Blood-stained poppies mark the day that human
sacrifice did harden the skins of the less murderous mass
for such a brutal aghast affair, how the God all mighty
would formidable bear witness to grief beyond repair
Out into the fields, neither would yield-with bullets they
would tear but what would a stealthy, shrewd general care if many
died on duty which left a nation dumbfounded by the levity and
gravity of a war that was deemed
to be of grandness, valiant soldiers of fallacious valour
mercilessly gunned down and with
no gratification, them forsaken, while the gutless
general is less sanctimonious, pious in his approach for the
fighting did persist, until finally that last shot,
at last serenity in the calamitous storm, birdsong instead
of less fanciful peaceful flight, that night the serendipitous surviving
soldier did sleep so tight, a nation did succumb to pitiful sorrow
and pain-so the poppies do denote blood-stain and brutal,
grim, gutless gain
Copyright © Clare Innard | Year Posted 2024
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