The ambiguity of death
biting at scars, etched
from swooshing bullets
blurring past remembrance.
Swallowing pain, long forgotten
in the passim of distant lands-
holding relentless men
cutting at peace's attire;
sealing wounds with
letters like bandages
warring memories of
the gentlemen's song;
gulping tears, shed of blood
fearing never to be home.
Lost in the forgiving arms
of a brothers hope and
a tender woman's dream,
but babes in the abyss,
poppies of the field!



ELEETE J MUIR