An Offering of Poppies

Death has no scent. It exudes an acrid stench. The fetid breath of need overpowering all else, imbuing its victims with a fear that only it can ease, a loneliness only it can fill, an emptiness that it created. Death is not quick, born in a swaying field of beauty, crushed into a powdery future, dealt to its distant prey. Oh, sweet are the promises of death’s enticement, subtle the succor of its evil invitation, endless the horror of its transient peace. For death is not the worst thing to happen, only the last. a beauty ensnared an offering of poppies tears moisten the earth ©4/25/2019 Pick A Title, Vol 4 - Haibun Poetry Contest Edward Ibeh - sponsor