In this sleep, Brought on by the snow. Each corner we weep, Driven low. Playing the harp in the cold, Staying the heart on its old Journey Among frost and loss. Situate, instigate Tides of nocturnal wrath To keep the fever. Oceans come, Hands will leave, After the first wave. Recession in this stage, Regression to the page. Becoming still, the story That buried eyes beneath a curtain. Blind in the softness Of snow. Make way for oceans, Bleeding our old smiles along. Create a path for sickly motions. A pretense, an absence, A lie caught red-handed in the wash Upon heavy eyes, Beneath the immaculate sand.