Bedtime and Dead true

Bedtime

Snow is the colour i see,

dark lines appear to be,

or not to be.

Square circles now project,

hammer falls i object,

not my subject.

returns to plain,

tears like rain,

so sleep i gain.

Dead true

Tears on the paper i write,

me and to much will,

spill to soak the truth,

then dried by paper friends,

who now torch my soul

and words of the wise.

To these paper cuts unheard,

still on the damp pale lines,

the words are produced,

and given life by pen,

all to become ash,

joined in marital last rights,

to rise up in smoking black,

like all the lies past,

from the words of the wise.