A wooden table,
an abandoned field,
a cross-stitch of poppies,
naked trees sway in a whisper of a brezze,
A crumbled house lays bare in the field, dried peas lay scattered,
The wooden table inflamed in flames,
the cross-stitch thred hangs from an open wound,
but when I wake its just a dream,
But was it really?
The table charred,
the poppies dried,
the trees don't sway they are died,
the brezze is cold and full of whispers,
and a wound lays there with thred,
the cross-stitch has unraveled,
and the house is still crumbled,
but the field doesn't lay abandoned,
The wooden charred table stands tall in the field ready for a final round.
