The horizon above the concrete grid
a hardened trail of an upward fleet.
The snow that starves the Earth of green
and leaves left crumbled beneath our feet.
Will our paths ever cross?
Will they ever meet?
You've never seen these stairs
You don't know where to greet.
Type.
Delete.
Type.
Delete.
Type:
Retreat.

I counted sheep but they stopped flocking
the stars flickering I connect the dots.
My own demise and it's not shocking
all these plans but no said plot.

A few heavy notches later
and the headboard comes crashing down.
Between the sheets and clutter
a bit of clarity was found.

A twinkle in an eye at large
but never stays for more than a minute.
A fella' thinking he's in charge
but he's not, I never finish.