Flattered by the gossamer glow of a blushing moon,
I scour the poppy-fields for the opiates of inspiration,
the petals brushing against my bare thighs; easing
the tense creases in my neck into shivers down my back.
What wanton joy, as I wander and wade in this sea of red,
the waves of flowers parting before me, waltzing with
the silent wake of my footsteps. I could saunter on forever,
holding nightfall by the waist; nature at my beck and call.
Why do you blush, moon? Is it because of how stark naked
I appear before you, disrobed by your own coaxing caress?
All cares do I brush aside, when on the night you do preside,
and aloft the cloudless sky, gild gleaming eyes with wonder.
Why does Dorian linger in that gray opium den for a whiff
of oblivion, when you could soothe him to sleep with but a blink
of your lidless eye? In a dream would we saunter on forever,
watching nightfall go to waste; nightly would we call out to you,
but you would never answer...