hwithumalut

The poppies blow, in form of god on high. Huzzah! It’s a gala day, for sincere performance, in fields, in veils, and drowned in tears. Mere puppets they must one day vanish away All over that motley drama, a toss of death’s dice. We shall not sleep within the lonesome latter years Yes everything is vain, even the scenic silence. Vanity was the good cause on that fateful day. Bunches of damp flowers and makeup by a con artist. Corpse with the isolated arm of the painted angels, all pale and weak. A funeral pall over a once many faced form We lived, felt friendship, and saw when the loss or gain is cast upon their judgment day.