A bluebird hovers above rifles

raised in memory of people dying, clasping the cold edges of guns in the absence of their mothers' love.

Cheers ring out for survivors having embraced their triggers hard enough to keep breathing

as a million of last sighs were left united above the bruised treetops sobbing quietly in the burning fumes.

Scattered souls getting bled through eyes are seen among the laughing crowds, widows clutching their children's hands twice

making up for fathers lost in a foreign land.

The bluebird cries. His tears fall to the ground stomped by marching feet honoring those who cannot walk,

screaming every word the bird can't roll his tongue around, too real for his trembling lips to form.

His dropped jewels gleam in the

gloomy day as they let their vibrating voices break the crispness of the morning, pieces tumbling down into the

children of his sobs,

enhancing their strength as they shout out the horror of marching in memory of soldiers; the sadness of cheering surviving armies; the utter foolishness of raising guns dignifying buried boys that would have laughed and run, embosomed their children hard enough to squeeze the sorrow from out their skin, if greed wouldn't have given birth to those weapons.

Their shriek clangs through the streets,

clamoring how this should be a day spent mourning the lost men caught in uniforms brainwashed by altered patriotism, how their ashes shouldn't be strewed into a shatter grenade but planted along with
seeds of harmony on open fields,

how a peaceful world

should come to emerge from the endless graves where their spirits sleep.

The bluebird dives into the crowd, letting his body swirl around the uniforms walking stiffly through the darkening day.

He inhales before whirling down into a rifle held high in the sky,

allowing his tongue

to slide along the words no one marching has ever understood.

Freedom,

he calls. Let

peace

spread throughout the world, carried on the back of every bird floating across the empyrean until the message can be heard chanted from every mountain stroking the earth with its roots.

Let's honor the memory of lost men, he calls, let's learn to love as we now ****.

His voice is drowned by firings in the salute of lost troops. No one hears his last desperate cries, his throat celebrating his own mother who will never again

caress his plumage.

He clasps the coldness of the barrel, before his last breath unites with a

bullet.