Distant like the sound of drums
No metal, no brass
Just the beat of drums past
A war cry
A battle scar
A moment in reality's tear
The battlefield is nothing
Not a fat lady singing
Not a flaming square of grass
No, this battle took place in the past
One survives on the ground and waiting
Wasting away, depreciating
Neither skull nor flesh
Just a flowering pest
A single rose in the ground
That cannot hear the Bell's sound
Ringing to warn of torture obscured
The rose is red of course
Sitting in the dirt
Unable to move
Yet, it still hurts
Bathed in blood
It was once white
Now, it is nothing
But a representation of one night
Sitting atop The field
Awaiting a strike
Until one day, someone takes a hike
Pluck the flower from the field
In the hand, beauty is real
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