The Plant of Joy

The sun is hatched, its yoke half-bared, corralling minions from their roost, That tarp of dark hung grand to spare the flooded eye from light's dour truth. Decamp! and rouse a pliant stem, I suckle on paralysis, and tithing to the poppy's phlegm, On teats of steel my soul subsists. I would not fling this solar cyst into Inferno's deepest pit