Under the Tracks

Poppies in
the rear view mirror.
I look back,
and I imagine
what I remember.
Red blossoms
across a white shirt,
a white throat.
Flanders Fields,
for an army of angels
who had no wings
and no idea
but plenty of ideals.
Would he have lasted three days
before he put a bullet
in his brain?
Would she?
Would I?

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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