On a canvas of thorns;
Smeared with a pallete of my life,
I drew you,
a little child,
hithering in the garden.
Crowned of unkempt hair;
chased by life.
.

Smitten with frostbite,
Not of snow;
but of this endless enigma
that brought us so close;
were they your words on paper?
Today, my throat revolts in pain.
.

Why shall you write a farewell,
in words so few;
When the letters of love;
bore words uncountable,
like grains of sand.
.

Has it all slipped through my fingers?
I pick up those leaves golden;
beauty, devoid of life
Strewn on my path to home.

LOKI