parralell worlds, a poem

hustle and bulstle.
work play and shop.
a car backfires,
a man is shot.
my gun grows hot,
the tank growld loud,
my feet get heavy,
and i grow tired.
a splinter of pain,
a cry of man down,
an bright white light,
one final parade,
and the country moves on,
and the country forgets,
but that poor kids family is left in a mess.
11 - a month
11 - a day
11 - o'clock
the whole land stops,
a man steps forward,
a wreath blood red,
each flower for a man,
thats too long dead.
a bullet to the chest,
shrapnel to the head,
man, woman, and child,
now laid to rest.
that war may be over,
but the fighiting won't stop,
untill the world remembers,
more young men will be shot.
but on the world marches,
with lest we forget,
but for many its too late,
to late not to forget.

for those who fought for thier country, for freedom, for life, for what they belive, for those who diddent make it home, for those who lost a little peice of themselves, and those thay left behind. whoever you are, where ever you came from.  we MUST remember them.  lest we forget.