Waking Up To Death

I was a starving minion, questing after the deep highs of luscious laughter that slip off slumber's linen wings, pleasantly removed from the pain of wanting what can not be owned and so I begged asylum of Nyx and buried my face in her bosom seeking a bed among the poppies, so I could seduce Hypnos at the edge of oblivion; and be sleep inoculated against plagues of Pathos. I sold my shadow for the opium phantasms flung from Gates of Ivory, such beautiful deceptions, flawlessly manufactured to be reality resistant but lately, the Tribe of Dreams have brought blistered drops of winged darkness from Gates of Horn to kiss me goodnight and populate my skin with the cool slick of death and disturbed somniloquies, prophetic warnings from Thanatos... if I loiter too long at the edge of Death I will have paid my life for false dreams.