Autumn's poppies burned blood-red
In field of dreams, so carpeted,
With braided wheat from golden chaff
Separating daydreams's laugh—
Old man's thirst, so intertwined,
Parched tongue licking tempting rind,
Forced his hand on rusty sword
To swiftly cut the fleshy gourd
From withered vine's long hemorrhage,
Which bled with double lineage—
The promise of ideal fruit,
His salivation, irresolute.
Petulant, voracious greed
Chose the slices with no seed—
Refreshing, sweet, the liquid pulp
Saturated instinctive gulp—
Then having sucked the fingers dry,
He gorged on juice of unquenched eye
That saw congealed on every pit
The bitter taste of hypocrite;
Laboring through the fruit so thick,
He choked on tasteless rhetoric,
Content to dine on soured pith—
Coagulated poppy myth.
– Jennifer van Westrum