FLOWERED

Skin so red, it's not the blood, but petals fallen from the

poppies growing on his grave.

He fell, you broke under his gaze, and shells you gathered on

the beach were rubble,

broken feet from stepping over, finding no one.

Shards were words he gasped in tongues you couldn't

recognise, now you can't ask him as he chose the easy way,

a tattered note, letters you were blinded by, you could not find

the words until the anger cooled.

Now you're left with bitterness, and everything tastes sour

except the sweet taste of finality.