This world's an icy tundra

A land of snow and wind

Swirling frost bites

And harrowing nights

The sorrows of nature

Cut through the snow-covered mountains

Howling through the crevices

Of every stone and corner

Nothing seems to be beautiful here

But the denizens falling slowly to the ground

The flakes, dangling at the fingertips

Of the puppeteering air,

Dance with one another

In their fine clothing

And sharp crystal paradigms

Laughing their ephemeral laugh

Falling carelessly and swaying

To the songs of their Moira

Celebratory yet somber is the tune,

The one chance waltz,

As the proximity closes

Near the moribund ground

And with death's gentle kiss

They lose form and meld

To the hills of snow

We try to remember their lives

But can't help but to forget

It's how our world is. It's how we are.

Beings meant to make a lasting or infatuating stand

Our existence, a weeping reverie.

Our existence, a tragically beautiful flakelet.