The silence is all-consuming.
I know it's only two minutes, but—
—it swallows me whole and—
I don't know why.
I do know why.
Why?
My grandparents died in the war.
I know—you don't—that it's not the same,
But I still feel as if we should remember
That it wasn't just soldiers who died.
My heart pounds with the force
Of gunfire.
My breath hitches like the silence
Before an explosion.
My eyes close and for a moment I'm—
—in their place, dying for my country, scared to be a survivor, scared to be the one who dies—
—not myself,
But I'm still here.
The flowers,
Red
Like the blood of the dead—and the living—
Who we think of today,
But it doesn't feel right.
It doesn't feel right to give flowers
When these people,
Friends,
Family,
Brothers,
Fathers,
Sons,
Uncles,
Husbands,
Gave their lives.
DU LIEST GERADE
The Red of the Flowers
PoesieA poem inspired by the thought: The poppies we lay down for the soldiers who died in battle will never be equal to their lives. #2 in warpoetry 26/7/19
