My Red Garden
As poppies grow,
through my veins a fever flows.
But scarlet roses always bloom,
on fertile ground, in safe rooms.
To believe my sweet hibiscus,
is dirty business, to the garden a sickness.
Fields of delicate tulips,
such a lie, a far-fetched tale
from devious lips.
is becoming nostalgia.
Spinning and consuming asters,
of petals and powder that should be feared,
pollen which brings disaster.
As poisonous as poinsettias.
Healing as red yarrow.
My crimson petals don’t bring me sorrow.
My blood-tinted flower always empowers.
Natasha Reeves is an Arizona native who grew up in a small town. Writing is a part of her career, hobbies, and overall self-expression. She uses writing as a vessel to release her mental energy and explore her imagination.
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