As you open this book
pressed flowers lie still,
dormant veins of cherry
splashes and scarlet
pools for their faces.
I was told that they grew
for such a beautiful head
to die a martyr, their vain
silk of a skin pulled apart
like lips on a gun barrel.
I caught them with wings
spread out, yellow stalks
for their eyes seeking
a summer sun. I wouldn't
let them fly, so I stuck
their lovesick in a casing
bound to hold them down.
Coffin closed, box sealed.
They sleep a winter, raw
as the day lately picked.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 8:22 PM UTC
As you open this book
pressed flowers lie still,
dormant veins of cherry
splashes and scarlet
pools for their faces.
I was told that they grew
for such a beautiful head
to die a martyr, their vain
silk of a skin pulled apart
like lips on a gun barrel.
I caught them with wings
spread out, yellow stalks
for their eyes seeking
a summer sun. I wouldn't
let them fly, so I stuck
their lovesick in a casing
bound to hold them down.
Coffin closed, box sealed.
They sleep a winter, raw
as the day lately picked.
On the subject of colour, I focused on the poppy and its relationship with young soldiers gone to war.
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