Poppies

Wear me like a poppy upon your head.

Flaunt me as you stomp on those other wilted flowers.

Till I realise that even poppies wither away,

And they aren’t really made for crowns.

Even if you promenade with a wreath on top,

My tendrils will still curl for you.

So wear me like a poppy upon your head,

Until I wither away,

Until the soil engulfs me in an embrace,

Until you’ve stomped me off

And found a new floret.

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