As I walk the snowy path,
I listen to my own self's wrath.
For this is the time
When I reflect myself
Back onto me,
And pick apart all of my deeds,
And hope the self reflection
Will set my soul free.
Unburdened by the trivial needs,
I let them fall back in the reeds.
My smile slowly fades to gone,
My soul sensitive as a small fawn.
My being changes on these walks
And I become a critic.
But is this really
the best way to be?
To critique oneself
beyond their means?
Or should I walk home in the snow,
And know,
that I am no more perfect
than the next
soul that walks this trodden path