Flesh is stripped away in grisly ribbons, It wraps around their mouths— suffocating. Twisted into the red string of fate, It ties stone crosses To the backs of martyrs, And crowns their skulls with poppies. Still, the rook will crow, And thick blood runs in opaque veils Down the innocent’s face.
The ribbon floats back home, Washed up on English rocks, Where the lover, the friend, and the family member, Allow it to curl around their littlest finger. Their tears join the sea.