The Flower of Death
She who most haunts my dreams is no Woman at all, yea but a fiend. I at present stand years and years Removed, though her kiss I feel as If she were today. Why, but why? The pain when we part is a pain Far worse and weightier than all The pleasure when with her I stay. A cunning co-equal with the Serpent is that from the poppy Plant derived: that which is most like A most loving mother: opium. Her fingers are crossed as she offers A comfort—a murderous Comfort, yet discomfort is also Like death. If both ways are a dying, To choose comfort first, rather enticing. Earth is mother, and opium Is her daughter; and one taste of Her is living heaven—at home, I am at home at last. She quickly Comes and stays away longer; then To her, alas, I am arrested; Won that she wanted: an always Welcome—this heaven is hell to me. Still a fool be dreaming on You so? I found my life in living, So why persist my past at present? Yet your presence is not pleasant, And here’s how I know: by the dream, You and I never touch, but what Is felt tells me much about that Time of dread: departure; I’m alone. I’m frigid and froze down to my Bone; in my legs run constant river Flows, not peaceful, not patient; a Fog-headed traveler with Nowhere to go, sweating something Sour, walking just in place, but Desperate for breath. I am thus Exposed: more not less than Adam Was before his and my Father. To dust I have returned, not one Speck smaller. It’s as though each act Carries with it the weight of the Cross. Each moment contains my death— A living end. One question to God I insist: Tell me, if it’s life Everlasting for me You seek, Why with pain is it bought so cheap? Oh, opium – you promised my Heaven, while hid from me your hell. For I and for others this I tell: Heaven is life eternal and So goes hell.