Midnight Poppy

Midnight poppy Stark. Lucid. Elusive. Memories of my untold fate. Black poppy smoke rose slowly where the sleeping spires wait. The Green Goddess poured her secrets through a cup of obsidian night. I drank until the city blurred and every wound became a light. The absinthe sang of vanished years; the opium whispered grace. I followed both through violet doors no map could ever trace. Then she appeared between the worlds where dream and memory meet. And all I was, and all I’d lost, lay quietly at her feet. From midnight’s gate and lanterned streets, forever did I roam, A restless pilgrim chasing ghosts that never led me home. Though oft I saw her as a mirage kept beyond my reach, This hollow wound remained unfilled by all that drink could teach. There I wandered, sleepless still, beneath the moonlit deep, A patron of the poppy’s bloom, the sacrament of sleep. The city dreamed; the shadows turned; the years dissolved like rain, And every glass I raised at dusk returned her face again. Yet when the final lantern dimmed and silence claimed the air, I found her waiting where the dark and dawn together share. No throne, no crown, no oracle—no mystery to keep. Only her hand within my own. And there at last, I slept. ~By: 3XC ∴