Wonderful, But Forgotten.

I lost my fear of death
when I was in your eyes,
rapture and reconciliation
mirrored in protest, carnal
in the still life of transmuted lines.
I was born too late to see
the sensibility of poppies.
Only losing the aftermath
in resisted, beautiful times.
You asked me for my story,
so I gave you all the world.
How could anyone stay,
when the subject was no more?

  
© Phen Weston 2016

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