The Poppy Isn't Always 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,
hurniating 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...
[...] Read more
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
Added by Poetry Lover
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