the field of flowers

flowers are pretty...even dead ones

an archer’s arm, stretched taut and thin
six quivering arrows loaded within
a blackened cannon, burnt and bruised
with gunpowder, it sets love loose

across the field of floppy flowers
athwart the sky of navy blue
the arrow’s flight of fancy showers
bringing the wilted to full bloom

above the plains of rotted roses
atop the hill far eye can see
the cannon’s only muzzle poses
manned not by men at ease

the field of roses, turned bright cherry
fed by glistening rivers of red
scorched by those battle-weary
sung by those not dead