Poetic poppies

Don't ask, don't tell

Each new line, a different destination,
confusion is a sensation that I want to keep.
Even though pictures say a thousand words
I'd rather recite them one by one.
Dusty hardbacks stacked in a corner,
creates a mount of fervid emotive
words all jumbled up with scattered punctuation.

This vale, this thorpe, I wonder
aimlessly names dropped like
summer rain, hissing as it dies on the roasted
tar. The fields, those fields I walk,
every moment, a new poet.
Authors grow like wild red poppies,
growing up with fire and a point to say.

Although clichés hover around, ready
to corrupt a young poppy with it's
poisonious sting, ruin. This place, a
bliss, an abyss of pure words,
It used to be anyway.

Torn apart by unsolicited lyrical children,
and combined with the phosphor,
the persistant phosphor glow in
every home, ruined ruined ruined!

There are still pockets of new growth,
through the charrs of deep desperate
destruction, grows those red poppies again.

Wow.
I loved it.
And so true.