I crave to be raw, like a wild poppy,
Beautifully natural and blooming in weirdest places,
Disgustingly natural and seeing grossed out faces.
I yearn to be one with Earth, like a wild poppy.

She lies there in grass, illimitable, connected
With roots deep below and head strength-red,
Using the smooth dirt as her designed bed;
The skill of not caring ethereally perfected.

Her petals are just barely brightly-painted
Reminding me — what lives, once has to die;
Not tragically, not heroically, not a sad goodbye,
Not to be by serenity...