It's upon these cold stones
Which now, I choose to sit, and wait.

Alone at sunrise, fear, hatred and of course, this synthetic 'Art of Doubt'....become me.

The ridged steps- my only companionship
the true essence of cold.

as my fingers numb, and I can barley type this out
Honestly know
I wonder how long and painful
death by ice
really must be.

Beside me; a building filled with everything I could ever ask for want or even need.

Everything.

And yet , Upon these Cold stones
I sit, just a while longer
To remember what I still have. Not mourn what I've lost.

But mainly, to be a man who doesnt deserve anything inside that wonderful, overwhelming sentimental house. Be it people, possessions even the animals-on those cold steps of reality-he deserves where he rests.
They all deserve more than what I thought I could haven given them.
More than this.
I am so sorry Dad.
Im very sorry Mom.

Thank you, for these cold stones.  You will never understand the gratitude, which one day
I must leave behind,
of all the these priceless blessings.

But for now
It's upon these
Oh so cold, disgracelesss stones- you and me are too alike
melted with liquid burned and with fire, me and these cold stones
know true
desperation.