Poppies

Morning doves sent to guard your room at dawn tied to messages of morning love for when you push the covers over. I make your tea. How do you take it? As sweet as– honey drips down melting and hardening into the amber in which we are preserved. Intertwined, we allign and fragment. Humble and honest, trapped and placed in perceptions, it angles and cheers for dominant impressions. Explorers pick our peices up. They do not know the storm of scarlet lightening that trickled down from the skies like blood.  I had caught it in my palms like a heroine sung is psalms. She waits for me in a field of poppies. These are my best intentions. I only want her drug, to eventually have her bathe me in her fragrance–cancer, treatment, cure. She is the dagger and intent that I can’t fulfill in all she deserves, and this fact hacks and cracks my nerves. I cannot yet slay the serpents that gaurd regions of my badness. In the obvious open I could tell her… tell her…