So I Wrote About It, and it's Not For You

This isn't one for you.
  This isn't one for me. This is a collection of clumsily sewn together sentences for everyone who isn't us. This is for anyone who has ever made a handprint on a condensation coated window. This is for the veins of this world – the people who carry blood back into our hearts.
  This is not for the arteries.
This is for the starlings, cart wheeling in the orange and purple paints of the dusky sky. It's for the old man reading his newspaper on the doorstep in a black and white photograph. It's for the strings struck by piano keys, it's for the ink feeding the typewriter. This is a piece for the demons in hell who give exalted angels their significance. It's for all the tears shed on hospital wards, evaporating from the pristine floor but never forgotten.
  This isn't for the dreamers, this is for those afflicted by nightmares, both imaged and real.
This is for the corpses feeding poppies in the foreign fields of home. Those bodies are all of one nationality now, and that is death. A land where no wars are fought.
  This is for the pigeons in the street and the rats in the sewer – disillusioned runaways, trying to scrape a meagre existence out of inevitability.  This is for all the ideas which cannot be pinned down on paper, for the soul behind the portraits in old country houses and for the crumbling paintwork found in dreary council estates.
  But, most of all, this is for the children with the aged hearts. Darting, weaving, running through the streets of the old town in which they live. Sheltering in the shadows of decrepit buildings, buildings which stand alone on the bombed streets like a hag's last tooth. Blood sticks to their faces like sweat on an athlete. Or on a soldier.
  The only flowers their mothers received this Valentine's Day were blossoms of condolences. White lilies, forgotten in a dusty vase. If only they had a vase. If only they'd been given flowers. If only the mothers had survived.
  This isn't for me.
And it isn't for you.
  It's for the white lilies, who were never allowed to grow.