barbed wire scars (part two)

My wrists click,
as if i were re-loading a gun,
attempt to regrasp a memory.

Tears sting as if i were hit by gas, losing my sight,
i falter deeper.

A Poppy is laid down,
the marching of my heart, skips a beat.

The shadowy silouttes of my former allies arise,
to haunt me.

My roadmap scars,
serve as a reminder of ny luck,
as my hands tie the last name on a wreath,
looses a petal, stained red and smeared underfoot.