When I sleep, I dream of bright fields,
Poppies and daisies, sunflowers eaching to the sky.
I dream of elaborate metaphors, I pretend these fields are of dreams.
Each poppy a desire, each daisy a dare.
Each sunflower the soul of some blessed child,
Whose innocent wishes yearn to come true.
I dream of elaborate metaphors, where these fields are real.
Where a trampled flower is a broken heart.
The bees, they fuel these dreams,
Pollinate the stems,
And ward off evil predators
As best as they can.
I dream of fanciful nature
Within my heart,
And I see myself trembling, trying not to let my
Blood and ire get in their way.
I t yto nourish them, but with what? With my blood?
I see the dreams dwindling, the flowers falling apart.
These fields of poppies exist in my heart,
Where in life and in death,
They are colored red.