Boccaccini's in my hand
and covered all in oil...
New beginnings on the verge
and soft, defrosting soil.
Ins and outs and ups and downs
and everything in between...
It's very close, I can feel it now,
I can wipe my own slate clean.
New beginnings clad in white
though not the white of dreams...
Instead the white I wear these days
is covered in butter creams.
117 days are left
in a school with pots and pans...
and when those days expire, friends,
I'll be free to travel the lands.
What will I do, where will I go
and who will wonder why?
It's up to me to find my path,
my only limit? The sky.