Division

Each night she dreams of leading
the resistance.
She sleeps in fields of daisies;
they come and go
with fresh growth, later withered brown
and broken.

A single bullet strikes,
the onset of new seasons.
Blood blots in outward patterns,
seeping to stain
fresh linens and virginal skin.
She succumbs each time to
the great machine, marching
on without a beat.

Must we labor for our existence
and accept a punishment
not our own?