Slender necked, softly furred appearing ultimately delicate.

Dancing with natural seduction in unusual fields.

Heavy pods sway, narcotic blood infused.


Illegal to farm them you know, you can treasure them wild.

They grow best upon blood rich fields of war.

Paper thin petals waving on pollenators.


She is a thing of beauty, watching her impossibly lovely.

Strengths you can’t even imagine inside her,

Hid beneath a flower smiled facade.


There is strength there, born of blood and in war.

She dances to cries under gunfire and hears.

She knows the strongest come after.


Battles wear the rage of men, their war cries.

After is where she is strong, growing.

War soaked soil bears new life.


Blooms last barely a season, frail and bright.

Seeds wait for generations to grow tall.

Waving fields of poppies and sons.


Poppies grow abundant in rich soil, bloody soil.

Women strong after battle, rebuilding.

Neither as fragile as they seem.


For With  Real Toads (Alphonse Mucha) and for dVerse (attempt at allegory)