I can hear the brisk drops hitting the ground repeatedly. Every drop, a lingering soul.Each and every lonely icefall, releasing feelings, deep and intricate. Shatters of life waiting to be shifted into place. A portion of each, not much to compare. My thoughts, my life, my feelings are there.

Splattered paint-filled pictures, descending to the ground. My roots, my core, to dance fills the space, only to a certain extent, until I wish for more. My heart and soul are into it but still the sun stays down. Ice cubes form, the colours have frozen, my tapping feet must stop. My heart slows its rythmic beat until the brush will paint. I won't compare with anyone's life, my heart will live its own. The brush will paint,my feet will tap, my writing