From the Bones of the Dead
The poppies grow where the bodies lie.
They grow out of their skulls;
Out of bullet holes and discarded limbs—
Anything is their home.
And in this brutal massacre,
A young poppy seed finds solace:
Somewhere to grow old.
The poppies reach upward,
Each like a spindly, quivering finger
Pointing to the heavens—
Come rain; come shine.
They are an unwavering beauty
On such a deadened and weary land:
Flattened and trampled by the lost souls,
Still searching for their justice
And for their lives back.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
