She wore a red dress.
It flattered her most gorgeous form.
Her dress wore shapely, a memory of the men who passed before.
The first, whose name was Cyril, the last ones name was Norman.
She had poppy made of paper.
Stuck between her *******.
In memory of the last one, he always had been best.
Upon the hazy battlefield she'd seen him as he fell.
In her wings she carried him upwards out of hell.
The sky it cleared.
The fighting ceased.
Heavens' folded, creased with cloud.
Peaceful field, silent crowd.
(c)LIVVI