It’s been a dark day
Awaiting fresh poppy deliveries
To hang and dry
To crush with mortar and pestle in hopes
Of visiting vexed vixens
Intent on mixing oils with petals
On canvas
To burn matches
Create riddles wrapped in enigmas
Suffering fools
Wedged between reality and surreal dreams
Of flames nipping on toes
Licking the spines of escapees running
Running with leaden legs
In terror
Horrid images of melting faces
Sinister clowns
Laughing murderously in captivity
Pacing as lions before the raw flesh
Devoured in torn chunks
Pulling and ripping as the mane waves
Gloriously in slaughter
An epitome of beauty
Repulsive synchronicity
Until contented satiated fullness
Awaits passing prey
50: A Figment of my Imagination 