To the days and nights,
the morning prayers,
lost in the void,
of his fears,
walking the pavement,
gazing at the timber,
far across the blues,
hearing the whimper of the asters,
the time was transient,
a standstill, in sense,
there she was,
those golden brown eyes,
scattered specks of green,
those yellow poppies on her dress,
the perfect disguise,
those blonde locks of her hair,
gracing her face,
he manifests running his fingers,
wanting her embrace,
she isn’t real, they say,
he would refute all the way,
believing in the poppies he sees,
the way his heart would freeze,
if only he could get her warmth,
if only she could rise from the sea,
where her ashes were once set free.