the Horror

in my night-hours i see

the jerkings of a shadowed poppy

the wind moves it so

it seems to mimick

gesture

like a grand exclamation,

"pourquoi êtes-vous seul?"

i answer with a gesture in return

i creep

slow, like the drip of honey-drops, slippery

up to it's perch

lone green hill in pale

Artemis' light,

and cut, with my silver blade,

cut

at the stem.

"i am not alone," i say.

and it slips easily into my coat pocket, a companion

for the continuation of my wanderings,

darkly.

it cringes.