Poppy Fields

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
this is not about flowers.....

Submitted: December 22, 2009

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Submitted: December 22, 2009



The world of silence, crimson red,

Where too many lives solemnly lie dead.

Under these somber grounds their ashes bury

These battlefields of a melancholy story.

But the graces of time have little but erased,

The eerie silence of a once destructive place.

Many lives died; too many tears shed,

Their stories have been grossly retelled.

Dwelling under this soil, buried in the ages

A love story, unknown to history dog-eared pages.

A broken woman left alone to widow,

Sleeps in her bed alone, gripping her sorrow.

The child who grew up to never knew his father,

Who constantly looks up to a courageous soldier.

A mother who never got to say goodbye

Consecrated grounds her child now lies.

The violence of men; war between machinery

Where thousands have fallen in the depths of history.

The future of men held in the barrel of a gun

The war started long ago but has only begun.

Though sometimes in these dark places an angel visits

In each newly tilled soil they deposit.

A little seed that will silently grow,

And the land spreads uniformly in sheets of redden snow

In these “gardens”, fields of red

Where the innocents souls have graciously bled.

The poppy fields bloom in their shinning glory

Consolation to a sad memory…

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