The melancholy ringing floats around,
The bells mourn for people they could never know,
The birds, terrified of death, fly away,
The flowers lie in a bed of dirt;
In a bed of the lies that were told,
Just to get people to fight.
The killers who were never meant to be,
The innocent who didn't want to go,
The children of our country, lives cut short,
The people who are worth so much more;
They were worth so much more,
But no one even knows their names.
The sons of your neighbours,
The fathers of your children,
The friends of your family,
The brothers of your sisters;
Your own family who went to war,
And who never will breathe again.
The bells that can't think of what was lost,
The people who can't remember the soldiers long gone,
The lives we aren't aware that people lived,
The world they lived in, mourning, a tsunami of tears;
We give flowers on this day to remember the forgotten,
But when are lives and flowers equal?
The cries of the wounded,
The shouts of the frightened,
The yells of the dying,
The red of the blood;
Red that mirrors the soulless flowers,
And the lives they could never represent.
YOU ARE READING
The Red of the Flowers
PoetryA 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
