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Happiness is not

The coat that you

Write on yr list, that you

Buy for a snowstorm,

That you

Remember to button up

In a snowstorm,

That you have only

For a snowstorm.

Happiness is

The breath you take

In a snowstorm,

Not even thinking about

The breath. And you

Exhale and watch

Yr breath disappear

Into nothingness,

Knowing there will be

Another one

Soon

Just as perfect

My blood runs cold

At the sight of my visage,

My reflection, the image of

The flesh which adorns my skull. The painted vision

Of sin

Seeking warmth where there is

No warmth; the absence of light,

Alighted into the depth, the abyssal dark

Of primates with venal mindfulness

And desires for material and power and lust and blood. My blood, at

A freezing temperature, stands still, expecting

Release; the razor draws and the skin acquiesces and

The moment passes without event, it is

Silence. The hatred

Is a false flag for

The system error, repeating forever

In the electrical system of a failed

Upright ape with

A consciousness that was never meant