"Poets Of Old"

From poets in words
rhyming the rhythm
a silent line waits,
for a pen to stroke a note
binding rhythm to the rhyme.

Tick tock-Tick tock
till the stroke of nine
chiming in time.
The publisher to read
dusty books to decide -

Is it in rhythm or rhyme
or prose from words
that no longer rhyme,
to the pace of the clock
on the wall now stopped.

The scroll set aside
for wine to be served
in crystal tumblers,
on the shelf of the wall
viewed in the window -

Ancient poets of old
warmed by the fire
with a drink or two,
smoking a pipe
in an opium cloud,

inspiring me now
with poppy seeds,
staggering slowly
falling down
slurring my words,

floating away
from my memory
where am I?
Trying to describe
the joy I have found,

writing out of my mind
without a thought
when the clock chimes,
time for a puff or two
the perfect masterpiece.