You aren’t even you, alas I continue to paint through
this endless field of opium poppies, searching
for you, again with hands muddy and mind fuzzy over you;
Wandering through wastelands to see you deserving of this view.
Drawn to you, my compass lead me astray in the field for death,
as yellow butterflies fly amongst I still fear my combustion
wondering if it’ll be me chasing you for an eternity’s length
lightheaded, lighthearted inevitably fucked by discussion.
Roll the poppies with my weed to feed my addiction to you
vision hazy, eyes lazy, fall asleep and wake up to dusk.
Picked some poppies for you cause I’m addicted to fools
mustering up courage to bring the storm clouds instead for luck.
Besieging love droughts and mistrust in opium poppy fields,
midsummer cusped by lusty thoughts in a blunt rolled to heal.
About the Creator
Raya
A poet and author born and raised in NYC, experimenting with expression of who I am and what lessons I’ve learned that should be shared with the world.
The Devil's Triangle
The sails ruffled in the breeze as we cruised along. The Sea Breeze was a mid-size catamaran that sailed out of Royal Naval Dockyard in Bermuda. We had booked this trip weeks in advance and were now looking at our Captain, Spike and two boat hands. Paddy and Wilson seemed like nice guys, joking around with the passengers and telling us some stories about Bermuda that only locals would know. Their island accents sounded almost British but they were pleasant to listen to.
By Barbara Gode Wilesabout 5 hours ago in Fiction
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