Finger opened

with a papercut that oozed the colour

of the poppies bleeding over the book

unopened beside the offending tome.

Its dry words – displayed, revealed still – insipid

black and white remained while her blood

dotted pale blue jeans just washed.

Nothing more painful, her mother

used to say.  Sucked the wound; eyes

turned again to those poppies – accusatory

now – red a reminder of the fallen;

immortalized in words poetic and profound.

More painful that history,

that experience,

that end.

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