The shots ring out,
A war in the works.
Palettes of luminescent colors paint the field.

Between lines lay a lone soldier,
Surrounded by bright poppies.
He whimpers, he shakes,

His warm hand reveals a scarlet wound
Along his hip,
A single tear of fear.

He wonders

A million cowards,
Coaxing men to join the fight,
From the comfort of their own homes.

Weak leaders,
Sending others into their battles,
They sit in the comfortable palace and drink tea.

Millions dead,
Innocent men, misled,
Now find themselves banned from the earth,
Gone forever.

A lost generation,
Knowing nothing but death and horror,
No future, no real past,
They rot away.

His soul clings to the image of those poppies,
Reds and yellows dance across his mind.
They slowly make their final performance,
The curtain closes,
On yet another loss.