Withheld,
in hand a pocket full of posies,
dried and dull from suffering a weeping death,
far from the earth land,
to wring and tie them,
fragile to the touch,
brittle to dust,
caught in a breeze on a warzone,
caught in the ashes of smoke,
marched along with fighters,
and soulless lackeys,
the survival rate only drops,
as the copper smell chokes those near,
gun powder thick as paint,
burns deeply into the flesh,
pile on a passing unmark grave,
the posies lay still,
held tightly in a small bony hand,
the winds picks up,
stroking the wildfires akin to a feline,
letting the ego grow with it,
just as those who watch in the wastelands,
with no care,
the puppets play their game,
nameless with no faces,
matching in uniforms,
indifferent by only minor colors,
one and the same,
while the handful of pocket posies roll with the deep shadows,
cast away in the winds,
dirtied,
and fogged out as marching footsteps crush them,
in passing glance,
going to the ends of the world,
all one mistake,
a mistake of misunderstanding and side views of life,
lack in waste now,
for how the future plays now,
the once giggles that vivid giggles in brightness,
of the posies,
means nothing,
when on the final thunder of death comes,
the world is final at rest,
in a forever silence,
made by those,
who do not own it,
just once lived in it.

 

 

 

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