I gave the man a couple bucks.
The poppy, crimson red.
He wore a smile that wars have marred
and thank you's all he said.
I drove away as did my thoughts
to when my brother died.
The horrors that a war creates,
I could not push aside.
We joined to fight as simple boys
who'd never be the same.
I watched as war turned Sam into
the monster he became.
One day we're trapped in foxhole dirt
where fear and blood ran deep.
I promised I would keep him safe,
a vow I could not keep.
Where bullets pierced a shameless earth,
Sam aimed with skill his gun.
I saw when foes fell dead in mud,
he loved what he had done.
No longer was he there to stand
for what our folks instilled.
Not there for country, honor, pride,
he was there to kill.
The war raged on and time confirmed
what nothing could disguise.
A brother loved that now I feared
held murder in his eyes.
"Kill them all," is what he'd jest,
with minimal concern.
We made it home alive but then
he willingly returned.
Mom never saw her son again.
The truth I've kept inside.
My brother basked in love for death
and in that chase he died.
I placed the poppy by his urn.
A little prayer was said.
The flower holds my memory
in faded crimson red.
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