A sonnet

Return to the dark mistress, sleepy lies,
aroma fighting snores, and biting steam
permeating pores. Fingers un-matt eyes,
as on murky magma drowsy lips cling.
The drug of choice enters veins, inspiring
neglected bodies dulled by mundane day;
jittery fingers the handle gripping
smooth porcelain-bound faith that never frays.
Emerging from the last black sap, the froth
and sediment crawl down, glazing the throat,
and bloated tongue swipes the yellow tooth:
the mouth and soul embrace their antidote.
My bitterly sweet friend, can I ignore
a hard-heart and stomach-cut nerves? For more.