In a field of smiling sunflowers, at odorous sunrise, he stood clad in blue. Reminiscing on her face, how perfectly structured her cheeks were when she giggled innocently; a loud eruption of sorrow drained through his arteries. He bled into her, desperately wishing for her to convert his blood and generate wine.

In a field of melancholy sunflowers, stood tall and limp, she sat clad in emerald.
Hands around -so tightly- her throat
Clenching until unconsciousness dominates.
She couldn’t remember him; he never existed.

Blood to her a sacred trophy, never mind the bitter wine.
Contempt in endless solitude,
Yet she questioned,
Is this all but a dream?