too many new flowers.
But who are they for?
The known stick figures,
Stand-ins for convenient
diatribes?
Or are there those who died for us
we never knew before?
In hives underground, battle lines
of space, the places where codes
Were exchanged, who go unmourned,
their cause unacknowledged,
For part of freedom is to feel
unobliged,
As part of service is to give
without thought of return.
Still, there must be a merge, there must be
a balancing,
Something preserved as it is perceived,
some gratitude accorded,
Even if the gift is for
a future state;
A soul in need, no longer
victorious.