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The Poppy

I chose the rose. A classic, she attracted me with her tradition.

She was all that I ever knew as a child.

"You can never go wrong with the rose", they said.

Though it was the wild vibrance of the poppy that lured me.

"The Poppy?" they said with unforgettable sourness.

"It is uncultivated! We shall refine your tastes!"

Atmospheres of roses upon roses penetrating my pores,

I soon forgot about my poppy....

that carefree and independent entity. Stimulating potency.

I left my orange oddity for another.

My rose, their beloved rose... not uncommon, a sweet familiar essence,

though undeniably, the same.

Now I must tend to my choice. Perhaps new petals shall emerge…

yes, a metamorphosis!

Indeed my ideals imprison me.

Beyond this cage, my frolicsome poppy dances in the wind

(larger than life... like an O'Keefe),

as I with my faded rose, inhale stale air

and imagine.