She was mild
bordering on boring.
An uninteresting fudge like substance
festering in the mold.
She dreamed of being wild
like some dark alluring, chocolate bar,
oozing its riches of tempting sumptuous delight.
Maybe even a hot sultry mangrove swamp,
feasting daily on her prey.
Yet here, she was, hidden away
in some lonely back street cabbage patch.

She cooked, cleaned, and sowed.
The comings and goings of which nobody knew.
A flower of some unknown shade
void in all its fragrance.
Clinging firm to the wounds
of her yet; still to be worn, dress.

In her make-believe tropical oasis
she cultivates a refuge of reality.
Come morning noon or night
in the delicate sleep of poppies bright,
audacious in her colours grand,
gown of old: but worn anew.
She unveils her blushing core.

No more the washed-out she.
Single bore of long times old.
Here, in her scented garden of Eden –
she blooms, to finally rise, anew.

Poppy August 2013


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