Bedtime Story

Barely a poet, drudging a trail through snow
Blankly focused glittering cold onto distant
Brown black against bright, lightly in depth
With every numbing step, blended, like the
Changing landscape trades inhales away

From a sigh that signals eyes to the ground,
Round entrance automatically found, sounds
Of far off winded songs taking longer breaths
When then to turn for one last look at all those
Verses played by grayscale fingers reaching to

Eternity, and evergreens relaxing their heavy
Shoulders, boulders still under patterned drifts
Listening for the sun and the moon to sweep,
And all stars soon to dream on the ceiling of a
Den, dark and deep, where all words go to sleep.

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