Friday, October 9, 2009

The Ice-Sculpture

Sitting on the soft, green grass,
my toes curling,
I feel the warm tickle against my stone-cold feet.
Now stone-cold.
Just like every other part of my dejected body.

My eyes turn towards the shimmering brook.
Crystal-blue water.
Crystal-blue eyes.

The only thing I can relate to,
is that sole, desolate tree.
Sagging branches.
Tear-stains on its bark.

The sky doesn't seem vast enough to embrace me.
Contain me.

So I try standing up...
Try getting back on my feet...
It's too hard.
Too much work.
I need a hand to hold.

That's when it hit me.
I'm nothing but an ice-sculpture.
Waiting to melt...

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