No Man’s Land
Walking by the White House,
Behind those tall, black, metal gates,
I see the clean-cut green fields,
Littered with ornamented bouquets of
Poppies, roses, violets, stretching
All the way back to those pearly columns.
On my side of the black gates,
People walk by and look at the
Pretty scenery, but the emptiness of those fields
Screams out much louder than the crowd’s
Happily ignorant chatter and distracted gazes. Like the
Fields of France next to the Somme River,
Seen by millions of soldiers in 1916,
It is a pretty scenery,
But it carries a heavy baggage-
The baggage of extra ammunition,
Soot-covered coats, sweat, and
Fear, absent only from their averted eyes.
The emptiness screams out at me-
Look, observe, but never move forward.
Instead, look from afar
At the empty fields of grass and poppies between you,
Whose only purpose
Is to embody that simple threat:
Move forward and die.
I walk on, enjoying the pretty scenery,
And avert my eyes from the truth.
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