What is war but a cradle of neglect?
poverty pays the price with utter bloodshed
melded metal casts for medals,
then rewarded to the valiant dead.
But they will never see them.
hopes, dreams, stories, and passions
are stolen away
as a sacrificed, though another day would come either way
Soon enough, surely one day, another will see
that those who tell you to forget your own dead
tell you to never forget
while wielding their beloved poppies
deep red in hue
as though lifeblood itself casts for wreaths
as though only when people are dead and blind, do they wish to see