No Rest for the Wicked Beautiful Youth

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.