Opiate Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

There is an opiate in poetry.
That leaves my eyes dead.
By the wayside, the morning after,
Like a spent poppy.
These are my Thomas De Quincey.
Confessions of an English Opium-Eater
I feel the drowsiness of arousal.
Senses cascading from an opening
Torn in a rose hip, seeds split and piled up.
Germination apparently on hold.
But yet, it devours all the carnage.
Of spring and summer's gold.
A sleepless winter unfolds.
A paralysing frost takes on its magical hold.
With too much beauty left lingering unresolved.
I take to the shadows and hide.
Beneath what's left of autumn's fire.
Poetry knows all too well my wish to burn.
Satiated and falling into the arms of madness.
My ever-loving mistress, poetry.