Remember the slaughters.
And Poppies. …
As the sons and the daughters of the fallen in the slaughters that were over a long time ago.
The sons and daughters of the people who sent them are chosen to represent them and take the lead bowing to the lurid god of heaven once again.
What do we remember on a warm wet November of the suffering of people long ago?
That there will always be men to go and fight again as the sons of those who sent them seem to know.
We never ask questions, for the very suggestions that this is not how things aught to be. With all the pomp and ceremony for our parents and our enemies.
Is that what remembrance should mean?
Poppies are flowers that fade in a day, a scarlet embrace that goes pop and away
Is a carmine youth in a land far away like so many others now pushing up daisies
And the stench and the rats and the air that was green or blackened by flies eating something obscene
It would be good to remember those names on a wall
Young men and brave men and heroes and all that sang as they marched to a death that appalls
Lions led by donkeys beyond recall
And scared men and cowards and fools
Who could tell
What of these men who were blasted to hell
New scars for old scars until who can say
For Poppies are flowers that fade in a day