In the memory of those who gave their young lives for our freedom

In Flanders fields red poppies grow
To line the graves of boys so young
Who lie in thousands buried in Flanders clay
Boys whom for our tomorrow they gave their today
Now just memories but kept alive
By the blood red poppies of Flanders fields

I become
once again
the
demolition man,
falling
apart,
yes
that's
just
what I am.

I live to laugh and
to cry again
to love and
to die and
to try again
but
I spoke
too soon
dry my eyes again,
to love, to
feel the pain and
to die again.

Your smile holds the breath
of eternity
in your arms
I feel that peace
eternally
but when I fall
and I fall quite
frequently,
are you there to care
for and to
shelter me?

It's
just
the yearning
of a beating heart,
breaking in two
and
falling far apart,
waiting for eternity
hoping that she'll set me free
and stop
calling me
the demolition man.

Riding in my backpack
chattering gibberish
she charms the man
who is in a good mood
so he repairs my typewriter
     on the spot, no waiting,
     for two six-packs of Bud.
He throws in a free ribbon, too.
“Don’t tell Boss,” he says, winking
at my daughter, who is as yet
too innocent
of her power.