Opium Populi

Jan Silver

Blossoms and bones,
poppy rememberings,
when those red cast souls
fled to their final sunsets.

Never ours to reason why
the first heroes abide
as do their songs, but still
the wrongs remain unrighted.

Cold names on a chiselled field of lost dreamings.
Cold names etched on hearts long since laid to rest.

Empty words uttered by cold mouths.
The petals fall on ears made deaf by lies.