Sleep in solitude
There’s steam against the window.
Birds bathe in a puddle of mud,
allowing snowflakes to hatch
from the cocoons of their shadows.
There’s a coffin in a tree; it has turned numb
with impatience and desperation.
This hand that bears letters,
forcing each to hang by the tip of the nib,
trembles in agonizing anticipation of the
Impending doom.
This page,
devoid of meaning,
suffocates meanings with their own meaninglessness.
This book, seeking to drown my sorrows,
cannot compare to the fatality
of poisonous smoke.
I sleep on the frozen alley,
for people have stolen the benches.
Solitude keeps me company
whenever it gets bored with itself.
“You’re sick,” it argues, when I cover myself with soil.
What would you know, Solitude, bearer of endlessness?
It’s cold outside!