Dreams of Poppies

are we but the narcotic dreams
from ancient poppies ground between
the the pestles and the galipots
of medieval alchemists?
and as such dreams may we partake
of conscious pleasures when we wake
to wander freely in the light?
oft denied us by the night
but what is truth, what may we see
to hold as our reality?
Is this existence all it seems
could we be more than fleeting dreams?


this constant murmured noise behind
my thoughts, an echo beyond rhyme
that fell between the cracks in time
which call to me from their eternal nights
where reason holds no true domain
never to be spoke again
and makes from beauty only pain
then all the physic laws descend from light
but still heard deep inside my head
the breath of galaxies long dead
upon which my dreams soft tread
and hide from them and so from their dark sights
explosions faded from their wake
like ripples on a silvered lake
the purest mirror they forsake
and find their way into the words I write