Plucked

The pressed uniform.  The tilted hat.

The shiny weapons.  The newspaper headlines.

The adoring look from the girl next door.

The glory creased by the shock of war.

"This man is your friend!" "Be part of the victory!"

The military badge stitched onto the skin,
The bud has flowered as he waves goodbye.
He vibrance fades, hardened by the front line.

The marching lines leave their trail
The poppy roots wrap around our hearts.
The plucked petals shall never wither
Their crimson veins map the memory of plight.