Bleeding poppy fields,
melting rocks,
painted sunsets,
disappearing wings,
and a strange wilderness
wrapped into itself.
It’s high tide
in the poppy fields.
To stand at the edge of a cliff,
to stand spreadeagle
and be overwhelmed
by the flourish of the season.
Poppies sway like windsocks.
In the mind’s eye,
I see a mushroom cloud
or the ascetic’s thunderous tandava.
In the nourished garden
is a heart filled with stories
and a soul filled with the eternal blue.
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