floral:

Those delicate petals.

Yes, I ran my fingers through.

Touched till they released their dew.

I drank it deep until it stung my chest.

That perfume could lead to madness,

if you could just avoid the thorns.

I promised to myself I’d stop,

time and time again.

Yet find myself still wandering your fields.

Gathering handfuls of poppies,

scattering their seed.

Watching you wilt and bloom.

Knowing finally peace and bliss.

In the garden I could lie,

among those scattered petals.