Poppy seed flowers

Poppy seed flowers are blooming just to catch your eye.

You know if you taste it – you’ll grow out of your mind and glide

to the end. The child that stood before you

has left red petals on the floor,

red shoes, red steps, but girl – no more.

There’s no way out. 

Wait, what?

We split our routs somewhere out there

Where we drank for peace about.

The trains took you south, and me – out

Of the dream

Where blood doesn’t flow 

and the interior is not corrupted to the core.

How many years by now have gone?

The trams still glide through cobblestone

Wet reflecting glowing shadows

Of goners. And those useless gallows

announcing you, or even worse:

You coming back to take what’s yours.

How many years have passed since then?

The trams still glide under the Zen

of songs undone. Can we move on

and fly above the pebbles you hated running on 

as they sank into the soles of your feet and the souls that

tear at you when you hurt me?

Poppy Seed flowers are bleeding just to catch your eye.

You had orders from your captain, 

while the captain had no gun

that went silent. Meditative, sinking down into a hole

you can hear your screaming gore

while you run on naked pebbles with no cry.

And that is why

the pebbles hurt.

There’s no way out,

but hold on!

It’s jotted down in my journal 

by your leaking and infernal

red ink. As you walk on

making pebbles take those falls,

passing by those empty walls

that crush and tumble from the weight

of the writings never made.

Sing to me that song you sang as you saw

the poppy seed flowers reflecting your soul

that went silent the day we spread our paths.

You went south and I went up.

The path of liquified flowers and

your young ambitions. This path leaking only 

when you close your eyes. 

This path is closed 

for lucky guys.

There’s no way out, and the tram

will open its doors to no one there.

Because the girl already fading

leaving only this red dye

on her shoes and in your eye.

It floods you as you take a step

while mushing up the petals of the red.  

What will happen to you now

while you’re marching on the run?

Will the pebbles hurt as much

when they touch you. Will you clutch 

to the orders of no one 

being blinded by the sun,

when the wet reflection stops 

you in your tracks?

For you to have seen

How your children will have been 

eaten by the dawn

of the tram gliding through the cobblestone.