Post Traumatic Stress

SUBMISS

& I did.

For it is I that hath been beaten

held like a bird by the foot,

cradled by claws

'til my final killing come.

I am a roman numeral IXII,

noises from a past life

take me to the dark side,

& I eat the ghoulish petals

of those poppies gone black.

For nothing else satisfies 

the shadow I harvest inside;

I hold remnants, eaten so unhealthily..

Until I can somehow turn them to gold instead,

but gold is only in my head...