Triangles

Wanted to, but I can't. Ski that deep. Turn that sharp on these thin blades.

It's just a picture of what it once was. Colors stolen. Captured.

Eyes stare upon the strokes as if the hand knew what it was doing.

Soft brushes. Sharp knives. Fading pigments.

The art lies in knowing how hopeless. The truth is every beer offers me the chance to, but I'm afraid to take it.

This hurts, but I know it. And that might. But how much. And for how long until.

Life.

Am I the only one that hears it cry?

Catch the snowflakes as they land upon your roof. No need to see the shapes they make.