under the static snowdrifts

under the static snowdrifts

Everyone was on a stage.

It was a simple procedure.

They were on display

feigning different levels of sleep.

It sometimes



to say let us just meet in heaven in death, 

for then there will be enough time 

for us,

because no there is no time 

for happiness, unless 

it’s streaming past in gusts 

to settle 

still on mountain-tops.

But the mountain-tops are so high up

that happiness would bluster into loneliness

and blow down cold and sharp like snow

or just leave us alone 

in the pallid cold.

So I’ll take the snow, if 

we’ve no time for more

than a lackadaisical appreciation

in a staged sleep attempt all tucked into oblivion.

The stage is confining

of movement and reason,

and we must remain positioned

in respective spaces.

Ever mocking and painting static sections of sleep.




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