Poison of poppies, crowning the skulls of the weary,
a weight of ages.
A scepter of browned roses,
held by gnarled fingers,
exploring like the salt of the seas, finding the cracks with the sting.
Little cuts from the pages,
an infliction of blackened honey;
too sweet a disease whom suspicion brings
and yet only spoken of in dreams.
How ashamed are those who do not voice these things;
lulled by the flowers: wet, red, deep;
secrets kept under a cape and crown of a king
and yet worried sleepless at the seams.
and hunger hurts,
those ruled and fed on fire and ash of tiresome dirt;
spinning into the houred catacomb,
burning as the sand and glass does
as it pours into the tombs of gilded worth,
of soured pride;
of what no brain and guts can hide
for on its humbled knees, the mind praises doubt as king.