Stomach curling
On a floor of icy shards-
The whirl of laconic players stomp gruffly,
A body tense and clamped in the grip of heat
Ironic
One suspended between sweat and chill
In the pale shadows of midnight
A rustling form within blue blankets
Checkered with monotony

Is it a dream?
Or the stumbling out of a dream
In the dreary morning hours
Of dead man crying in a forgotten grave
Amongst silver birch trees and perfect trackless paths

Perchance we find direction, compass swinging
Lands on some obscure location
Of purple backdrop and mellow harmonies,
Blending a single cellist’s tune
Lilting steps of a melodic scale

We are the lost
Homeless wanderers
Shifting clocks and chasing time
Juggling dead weights with a broken chuckle
Echoing from some foreign cave
We drown on seconds; choke on hours
Returning to past rooms
Peering through doors and brick windows.