Transformation

Could I transform this wasteland anew into an obect worthy of admiration.. a work of art, a symbol of creation, to make something of the traces beyond disposal, morbid in essence, toxic in deed.  The drop of ink sat heavy in my half filled glass, memories stirring behind the shadows. Pen poised motionless the cue to speak never came. I didn't want it to. What made a worm want to become a butterfly anyway ? It was safer in the ground. Yet, the remnants  left by time were gaining on me, its markings lined my pages with offerings, incomplete. How does one draw out the ruse of their own demise ? The night spoke in undertones hushed by the freefall of snowflakes in pirhouette. I was reminded of the old adage 'everything comes in cycles'. Perhaps this new snowfall would bring the winds of change.