On her shoulder, a gold and purple pin,
unimpressive in its size.
A wreath of laurel holds within
a small gold star, unnoticed by most eyes
The decorated generals praise skills of killers and machines designed for death
And in their next breath, declare peace and prosperity for their once mortal enemy.
And formally present to her, a pin, while she, broken wife and widow, washes hands with the madness of Ms. Macbeth
To scrub for all eternity at a sadness for which there is no remedy.
Only a prickled pin, she wears now not with pride,
or to wallow in past sorrow.
But to carry love for one who died
into unshared tomorrows.
Note: This poem is personal and fictionalized. I am a gold star sister and wrote this about a gold star widow.