Unexpecting

Here am I, darling mother host: your parasitic flesh and blood,
Evicted, undercooked. A flower senseless and scentless.
You did not think I would be like this.

If I could speak, if my pruned lungs would swell to bud,
I would annunciate my fear, I would bemoan this unnatural progress.
I did not think it would be like this.

A scrawny, hatched chicken deprived of its shell coat and hood,
Fertilised but of an untimely harvest. My yoke is your distress.
You did not think I would be like this.

If I could speak, I’d tell you how the beeping chews me as cud,
I’d bid the faces and instruments to quit their clawing caress,
I did not believe it could be like this.

In a sadist world I am drowning with no redemptive flood,
Such a fairweather friend. Not long will this be my address.
We did not think it could be like this.

I, petal-shy poppy would speak of my love- if only I could!
Goodbye Vesuvius mother, feel your Pompeii’s burning stress.
I did not think it would be like this.
You did not think it would end like this.