Cosmonaut In An Alkaline Field

Though Life is but the chair too close beside
The bed, where dead men slept before their tryst
With depth; above, the trees are white with mist
And snow, the rattling wind has barely cried -
Instead from door to door we fall inside
This stretch, the slowest mind is split (dismissed)
But gowns of green and hollow floors exist,
Our sleep an adamantine grip defied.
Dream as we must, this lustrous haze comprised
Of memories - aged vellum/lifelike dolls -
Where one the other kills, is never prized
Like alkaline and limestone specks, the cold
Blue field outside; a cosmonaut builds walls.
No bed. No chairs. By simply youth devised.