We planted poppy petals beneath the earth where rose buds once sprouted. We tread the scarlet garden with a subtle gait — losing ourselves within hues that blend seamlessly with thorn-cut flesh.
 
Unfurled, the grazes only hurt when the rain fell, so thunderstorms never sounded more melodic. We barely even noticed the cracks in the sky. Laying peacefully until the azure air withered into shades of onyx. There were no stars that night.
 
We reaped the growth of the blossoming field before we treasured the cycle of vitality. It began with us just as soon as it ended.
 
papavera non sunt rosae.