Fall
has come.
I
sit at my desk
in
the dark
wrapped
in blankets
A
pale light
casts
my face as marble.
I
read from
Thomas De Quincey's
Confessions
of an Opium Eater.
"My
dreams were accompanied
by
deep-seated anxiety
and
gloomy melancholy,
such
as are wholly incommunicable by words.
I
seemed every night
to
descend,
into
chasms and sunless abysses,
depths
below depths,
from
which it seemed hopeless
that
I could ever reascend."
With
an opium pipe,
I
could slip deep
into reveries
transcend,
roiling
back
to
sit beside De Quincey
as
he sweats,
tossing
and turning in his bed,
trying,
failing
to
wean himself
from
the drug that is killing him.
I
would hold his hand
in
the dark - and tell him
he
isn't alone.
Perhaps,
together,
we
might find some way
out
of the abyss.
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