Blood was drawn

sometime this month

a few years not too long ago

And now the blood has dried

enough to bloom 

into paper flowers

bought and sold

every 11th of November

to be worn and thrown away.


And so the blood waits

the 12 months it takes

to reach the point when it is remembered again.

Each time it returns

the blood seems to fade

the voices turn to murmurs

the souls become lost to the void of time


Perhaps one day, the red will be white

and the poppies one with the soil,

another moment forgotten in 




This poem is about: 
My country
Our world


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