The opiate blossoms have awoken,
Petals unfurling to show litten
And colourless innards, awake
To drink great light, their thirst slake.
Wildly yellow the grand moon shines
Down upon the valley of soft rhymes,
Better known for death flowers, for
Growing bright pods cast in forever.
Shadowy winds pick up recollections
And draw them across the valley, seasons
Pointless to observe for the valley
Obeys no physical law, no mortal tally.
Few of those sweet surcease promise scents
Escape the valley, bare precedent trends
That draw outsiders in, a bitter honeytrap
For unsuspecting travellers, sometimes stopped.
Fickle motives become realised in lieu
Of one’s previous destination true,
That important place now forgot,
A fading memory without sad loss.
Swift moves the new visitor, innocent,
Knowing no warnings of the valley’s taint
Lying about all its secrets, fire
Blooming in those flower heads dire.
The trap is set, the moon is risen high,
Golden yellow, bloated, time nigh
For lures to be reeled in, tugged upon
And the enfolding of sticky, resinous sin.
Our traveller is thus lost, beholden by
Secret fields of deathly wax, mortal high
That seems sweet first, bitter only much later,
The truth of the valley, the fate of our traveller…
All artwork on this site is done by myself unless otherwise stated.