War is like a bouquet of poppy flowers.
The color, bright and deadly, like anger rising from the depth of oneself.
The opium from the poppy seeds cause delusion,
this is why the knife first fell upon the stem,
the first bullet was shot in battle.
The picked bouquet, beautiful, a good idea at the start,
but slowly did this plan go awry.
The poppy's have already been picked and nothing can be done
about the slow death, the wilting.
The bright anger withers each day as the color begins to turn to the dead black of the grim reapers cloak.
The misbelief from the seeds begins to diminish
but by now it is too late.
Half of the flowers are dead
and the rest will soon
follow.