So I dreamt of sacrifice,
the blinding glare in the window,
a blue magenta dawn worth remembering.
At the cenotaph, the poppies glittering array,
medals like pendants on display.
Glowering, the mourning flower,
like an eternal weed raised high,
the poppy seed in flower
in golden hours upon a green
once crosses on unmarked graves,
now tell a tale, too well known,
a heavenly throne adorns
a woman in a gown of poppies.