The Scarlet Flowers

What can be said of the poet-made bloodshed

That we cry ourselves to sleep, dream of our ruin

The radio distracts from the drag of traffic

From the droning of war planes above

All this pain is scarlet flowers to me

Something to be held at a distance and ogled

To not smell the blood and the ozone

To ignore the curling tendrils of fear

Named Tragic and Hopeless, condemned to obscurity

Useless to fret, exhausting to worry

But it is not your fault

It is not your fault that others must bleed

And all you can do is write poetry