The Poppy Isn't Only A Flower...

Poppies, red and pretty be... Intensely fantasial, as they be malignant like Autumns leaves in the grip of Winter. Self-inflicted disease, despite outward signs, the abstract dreams, the tolling of bells in the silence of night, that deafen sprite ears, stun equilibrium, fork the numb tongue, herniating the pores of your apothecaried Brain. And the syringes you stole out the bowels of the clinic, during a 'trip' thru' your slanted Mind. ..........Did you really not know you were dying? Poppies, red and pretty be... Such a mantra you flew off the wings of strange seriphs- in guise, fallen angels from the depths of Hades, tho' you called it, 'Elysium', as your cankered mouth, exposed your tracked under-tongue. Tell me how do you feel, now..., Not to worry... Time will relieve you and all this shall pass but, if no...Ahhh, you're just one prick away from that place where you sit at the helm of your kingdom, as god of your dazed''underworld'' - .................................................., and the sex is sufeit 'tween the flaming teaspoons; and chimeric guests and hosts, confusing 'wants' and 'needs' 'til time ran your table like nine-ball with a Shark Did you think you wouldn't'scratch'? Poppies, red and pretty be... The metamorphosis is a bitch chords of breath choking hard, and thank God for this, for there be no other part of your body than this that can raise itself up sustainingly. You place your head in your cold swatted hands, fingers gripping your hair; virility lost, your arteries pulsing madly. And you find yourself hiding from mirrors, as they- can look right back at you, making denial all the more difficult; making you wonder how your Floridian tan has turned a sick pallid ash. Damn the Rush, Damn your substanced self! Did you really think you could soften the 'Crash'? Poppies, red and pretty be... Breath be done; still you lay, I stare at your eyelids pinched yet closed. I want to ask questions; , want to curse your life want to ask if you'd do it all over again', was the thrill worth the means of the'endz'? Perhaps you dreamt of black limousines, being carried 'round in a dark, wood box to a field composed of stone and silence, where prayers be offered high over you, in moist dirt void of smile and poppies. My turn, now, to drop that sweatheart rose, on the wood as they everso slowly lower - your bone pertruding ash-grey flesh whose decomposition was complete, long, long ago and well ahead of the last rose petals that stain the pine in permanence - from their own rigor-mortis; And it's done, Amen. And, you thought you'd never die this way, did you? Original Post....09-12-12 Revised/Reposted 02-28 16