Nepenthe

Nepenthe!
   Nepenthe!
I must have my
Nepenthe!...
My spirit; it yearns
but still finds no rest.
I chase sleep like shadows,
and dream only a breath
before it should vanish
and I am searching
again.
   Nepenthe!
Oh, Nepenthe!
The sweetest thing
to be wrought
by the hands that
made angels and
Fathered us all!
To know thee, is to fall
into sin, as I sought-
and be glutted vestiginously
of you more;
more all the more of the more
that I take,
and only more wanted
in my loss, so I ache
and seek you in places
where you are not to be caught-
Oh, my sweetest Nepenthe,
please don't leave me short-
   Nepenthe,
my Nepenthe,
must you leave me so fast?
For as you surely pass on,
I am stuck,
wanting the past.