I was drawing a picture,
A painting of everything I knew,
A painting in which you could see,
Everything I have seen.
It was an image of a cold,
And lonely landscape,
For it was what I have become.
Cold and lonely.
(But also inevitable)
Just like the winter is.
Inevitable and unstoppable,
As death itself.
When the image was completed,
I stepped back,
And saw that my work,
Was perfect.
But I was not.
The picture was lacking imperfection,
It was lacking something I still had.
It was lacking emotion,
Emotion caused by memories,
I could not forget.
Therefore, I destroyed my work of art,
Work of life.
And painted the snow black,
In memory of you.
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"Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law."
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