His mentality is madness now
Wandering through wintery wonderings.
His room reflects so little light
His actions limited in space.
When he takes the time to write
The thoughts and words are senseless.
He's come to know what distance means
In waning hours apart;
And if loneliness takes command
His only hope is art.
So he sits to do a meager task
To put the pen to paper
And though this may be foolish verse,
It saves his senses somewhat.