poppies are the color of blood

this president can turn even the solemnest of holidays into an opportunity to say whatever he wants. the gravestones crumble in their fields of poppies listening to him speak. all uppercase. all lies. & all the people who hold memorial still flock to the cemeteries upheld by red white and blue falsehoods tucked between the dead's teeth as they gasped for their mothers - they were told we would remember them.

instead he screams insults at people who never knew the skeletons rotting in their coffins, at people who have every right to live on whichever side of the border they want. he does whatever he wants and the people who fought for him, i remind my classmates, but maybe not for this for a better world roll in their graves. next year they will not be brought home.