Sunday, 1 February 2015

Poem for Sunday: Red Flowers

by Daisy Summerskill 

Uniform red as flowers marking our death but
Fake pride. Like birds in a forest,
God knows we are doomed 
from the moment the pen touched the paper.

Forests of sharp silver bearing bodies, our bodies,
Shrouds like scattered leaves lay hiding something secret.
Birds never fly here, only shells,
The shells which blind this war.

If you were here to see 
Pain painted upon our faces, like canvas
Scars not only on our rough working palms,
But deeper-they scar our souls, our cores.

Our delight is our deep sleep
To keep out the bitter end, while
Our loved ones are hanging 
On the postman's solemn visit.  

Running, falling, failing,
Shoulder bearing a killing machine.
Our tears bear no matter
They just dampen the earth beneath us.

The air we breath,
Could kill all men 
A deadly cloud that entwines 
Our struggling lungs, poisoned

Mothers have no son  
Left to hold
Fathers have no words to speak,
Silenced by sorrow.

Red flowers resemble us,
Memories stay with us,
All that remains are names 
Carved in cold stone.

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