shadows of echoes of memories of songs

Hi. I don't post much any more because I don't even know where to start and I don't know how anybody would hear it through all the noise.

Everything is deafening. The pressure of it on my ears is giving me the bends. Apparently not everybody has words clattering around in their heads all the time? Is that how they get things done? Does anybody still get things done?

I used to be able to pick words out of the noise and put them down on paper.

( There used to be a poem here )

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow between the crosses,
row on row. We cannot even count our losses,
a generation scattered to the winds like seeds
on stony ground. The flesh grew into leaf, to bud,
to crimson petals (glibly signifying blood
to other generations' poets), faces turned
towards the sky. So many left, so few returned
to tell us what the petals meant, the mud
that silently obliterated, where it should
have fed (perhaps, in better times) the growing seeds.
Sharp retorts are laid to rest beneath soft mosses
in Flanders Fields, where poppies blow, between the crosses.



(with apologies to Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae)