The stickman’s been walking in his sleep.
His conscience patterns the maps of lonely sailors. Drift out to sea.
Out to sea the stickman sleeps
Patterns of maps that drift lonely
His conscience, the sailors

The stickman’s soul sits on the roof,
Blowing smoke into the Boreal forests and quietly foot printed meadows,
Quietly the stickman footprints the meadows
Forests the smoke, blowing souls on the roof
And sits into Boreal

For as long as I trace the maps and smoke that wispy smile,
The stickman will sit three feet above, his gaze intent in some pinprick of an island,
Pinprick the stickman, mouth maps as long as smiling smoke,
Gaze intent, tracing
I will, in some three-foot island, sit above
And close his

Smoke tracing, footprints blowing,
The stickman drifts, sits, a sea of Boreal
His conscience will sleep, a quiet sailor
As long as that wisp is smiling,
The patterns of the roof on the island, the maps of the forest, an intent pinprick
Gaze out to my soul,
Three feet above

Stickman, your insomnia is infiltrating my dreams.