When poppies fade, our memories
Are washed in sepia, photo sleeves
With tattered corners tucked away
In dusty albums’ slow decay.
.
When poppies fade, recollections
Fall, dead leaves in mass defections,
Crumble-dry beneath bare branches,
Blowing lost in frozen trenches.
.
When poppies fade, awareness slips
From senseless, heartless fingertips,
Petals blanched, without their power,
Bloodless loss, amnesia’s flower.
It’s true. Lines are
more prominent than
they used to be. But if
you will read between
.
them, you will enter
my world – dreams
and ever afters, knights
and clashes with wicked
.
tyrants, notes stashed
in bottles and tossed on
foreign shores. Between
these lines lies a
.
spirit-essence, a will,
a mind, a heart. Turn
the pages breathlessly
when suspense leaves
.
you hanging; linger long
where hope casts her
spell. Decode the jots,
decipher the plot
.
sketched out by
an author yet
unknown. Read me,
between the lines.
Meanwhile, Melody Muses... 