with death and its tears, to soften turmoil
poppies sprout from a felled mortal coil
the flowers of hell, the leech of the damned
superstitions abound, I do not understand
how something as innocent as a lone red bloom
can be branded harbinger of chaos and doom
so it tears me apart, puts a hole in my eye
when manners are killed for what they might imply
and under the sun of an assumptionist sky
the kindest of the world would wither and die
turn out the spotlight, the burning disdain
pity the poppies, allow it to rain
just give them a drink to help clean up the pain.