Blood-red poppies lay on his chest
Calm, passive, he was finally at rest,
But to me he wasn’t, he did not pass at home
He died on the battlefield, left to rot to the bone.

A peck on the cheek, then he was gone
Little did I know he would be left to perish alone,
Floating through the air, as green as freshly cut grass
It gradually drowned his lungs, the ecstasy of gas.

Stumbling to the floor, his feeble ankles bound in wire
I bet his lungs burned, did they feel like fire?
The last sight he saw, the blood-covered bodies strewn all around him
Until his eyes writhed in his face and his eyesight went dim.

I hope he fought well, I hope he thought of me
What was he thinking? Was he unhappy or angry?
I will always love him; he will be forever in my heart
To me there is no such thing as till death do us part.