Sad boy, oh,
How you had contrived,
But wont you ever understand?
Kristoff: some things we make are more alive; When we're both gone, our memories to fade- What might remain is all we've made.

Poetic rhymes, key signature times,
A meter and an inch~
Fountain pens, splashing ink
How, Word's arrangements force us to think.
Maybe still, you're a piece of art-
I know you're more than just an image...
Or a sound, always formed by arms, frantic written movements:

Which Record
And Remain
Recapitulate
Retain.
Reminding me, & then you too
Inside all we might create,
Lives our spirit too.