Below The Poppies

In the gentleness of half diluted night
the cold, white birds of us lay side by side
gazing deeply at the sheltering of roots
that they might prophesize some handsome key
to weaving dreams like poppies over us hung
explaining secrets by tongue of wind.
Our filaments entangled by hand of wind
each eye has adopted a shade of night
and memories in sepia dried out and hung
like us fallen birds on either side
of our dreamt up key
beaks bloody from searched for roots.
Blended, fastened, tainted, hiding roots
we decide they must be somewhere in the wind
caught up in fungal bliss we sought the key
and never even thought to question night
only that in such should birds be side by side
the poppies make heads high when really they are hung.
The doves make morals bold when really they are hung
those dense, earth protected roots
show peaceful men in death lain side by side
each a current in love led to sea by wind
faintly in the distance grow our poppies in the
without the chastity of light spread thin was the key.
Depleted is the essence of our youth and in turn the key
merely in daydreams dwell the pinnacles all framed and hung
and maybe shall we never really listen to each contour of the night
perhaps irrelevant to this way of life, the roots
but if nothing more than folklore in the wind shall two birds live to sail side by side?
In our dusty field of poppies shall fate always step aside
A moon-like vastness left, no less adorned with key
trickery and truths left out for the keen eared of the wind
our wings must be unclipped like nooses from their hung
deep inside the seeping heart all towards it form the roots.
A love that is more swift than all shall lead us through the night
goodbye we kiss the night as now we wake still side by side.
Our roots linger on the bottom of a glass, alas…chin chin to the key
many tears have hung from this palate
but still have I to find thee in the wind.