Snow falls and covers all: the ground, trees, and critters of the forest and deserts. The bulwark which is my house: made of wood, stone, and travail. What stops ice and water from plundering my abode is ironically what it has submerged; a sort of yin-yang. It cannot breach but it can blow and breathe, and what it breathes plummets body temperature, along with assurance. My fire is enough, but not enough anon. It is in decline, as was the warmth long ago. For much time I dwelled in sunlight and vitamin D, however, I witnessed the calamity of bitterness, which is time and global interactions of all creatures, which consequents atrophy of all continents. What constitutes life also forgoes it. Once, in time, towers stood of wood and green leaves which sprouted oxygen and with that, life. Every day it grows in length and width. My life, I will surrender soon; for the ground is no longer dirt, but this white substance which benumbs the feet and hands. I cannot endure this torment of watching death’s shadow continue to rise until I am encompassed by a scythe and a macabre smile. Then, suddenly, it will swing, and my bloodline will be lost into the ground, along with my domicile. Too weak am I challenge nature and fate, the wheel of time and nature of the Earth and all things which walk atop of it: picking fruit and vegetables, slaughtering and enslaving, and exacting and depleting. I now walk the green mile, and soon, I will walk the line of the divine in firmament.