What will remain of them?

Poppy seed capsule,
bare now without
its bright crimson petals
a wind has ripped out,

like our children,
so often forsaken
and each one uncertain.
Many are taken.

Faster than eyes can blink
strikes the disaster.
Down the abyss they sink,
pale alabaster.

What will remain of them
who are no more?
Their untouched things
behind a closed door.

Something unspeakable,
someone we cry for,
mountains of memories
most of us die for.