Poppies are Red,
Much like the blood splattered fields,
That are lined with the dead.
Lives lost,
For no apparent cost,
Fighting for their country.
We all remember,
In November,
The wars that have past,
And the one's that still last.
Yet the blood still runs,
As does the sound of the guns,
Fighting to the bitter ends,
Destroying countless families and friends.
Fighting just to end up dead,
So many a messed up head.
Then there's all the different lights,
With the increasing heart wrenching sights.
Alone.
Only when dead..
...Its okay...
...You'll get home!
To mother's tears,
To confirm your family's worse fears...
Poppies are Red,
Much like the blood splattered fields,
That are lined with the dead.
YOU ARE READING
Queen's Forgotten Poetry Corner.
PoetryA place to keep my various poems~ Ranging from War to insanity to... cats? Please don't re-use any of my work without at least crediting or letting me know.
