Always Sleeping, Always Dead Poem by Achim Wollscheid

Happiness in the midst of all things
Is buried in the earthy ground.
He’s here in my sullenness,
Under this vain frown.
He’s dozing in my chest.
I feel that he is troubled,
That he is faced with turmoil
Because he turns and turns and turns
Until we wake in the morning.
Even then, he is so bent.
His face reads that he is sick.
Perhaps, my happiness is coming to an end.
I truly truly try,
I expose him to the sunshine
And we see every inch of the earth,
But at this rate, there is no hope to keep him alive.
The daily rotation is crumbling,
It no longer keeps us satisfied,
But rather questioning nature, “why? ”.
So we lower our eyes,
We fall so deep into woods
That are so empty.
In this state, someone saw us.
They must have looked into me
To find happiness turning in his burdensome sleep.
I didn’t feel us lifted from the woodsy bed,
Into a grave among the dead.
That is perhaps all we were,
Nothing but a bitter blur,
Nothing but a lonesome pair.