No Rest for the Wicked Beautiful Youth
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Poppies asunder put me under;
A slumber bathed in deep, dark umber,
Oneiroi aplenty approach me there;
Company where there exists no air.
Poppies given to me by you;
Poisonous mixture, a warlock's brew.
In the waters of my vacant sleep, it's warm--nice;
On the surface of my body, though, it's piercing, it's ice.
The truth warps my oneiroi, and, one by one,
The oneiroi have all been given guns.
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