Sweet Poppies

A bare little field on one side,

The barley wavering to and by,

Heady incense hits the air,

Flaming tendrils writhing in flairs,


A passageway sets amid the mist,

A danger sign topped with dark eyes at bliss;

The widow’s dress burns with those jewels:

Emerald stalks and curls, upright scarlet rule-


Gold, laid in continuous messes,

Bowing with re-memory blessings,

Bowing to the wind’s melody,

Whilst anguish from the barley family,


Plain, they cry, tears lost,

When the tears of the goddesses’ costs;

The scent overwhelming all,

Twisting, turning, get ready to fall.


Hedonistic fantasies,

Little games that the passers see,

Being enticed when the lips speak,

Bringing the heavens to sea,


They laugh, fortuitous forever,

Lost amidst the hands of their lovers,

Victims or memory-keepers,

With the taste of smoke, they are seekers


Of the righteous need to please,

When the red-heads cast down what they need,

Observed by lesser truths,

Fighting for what they might lose;


The sweet melody pitters out,

Encapsulates the searchers’ shout,

Treasure, hidden, in the reeds,

For now the colour down from the sky bleeds.

The End

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