under the static snowdrifts
Everyone was on a stage.
It was a simple procedure.
They were on display
feigning different levels of sleep.
to say let us just meet in heaven in death,
for then there will be enough time
because no there is no time
for happiness, unless
it’s streaming past in gusts
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.