Even in the apple blossom moss of your sleep
A plod across the marsh of it, is such a placid deep-
And a withering of agony
a thing to keep...
Than ever was the promise
Of  a hell beneath.

The quaint and gnarly burl of frost     affixed      to half the stars you marvel-
Crisp dark pleats
In absolute
Garments.

Tethered to your sleep
regardless.

Heart of heartless.