Ice Age
Strands of sugared spider web
hang from the heavy, sagging eaves;
brittle as bird bone, fragile as virgin love;
complex as the human soul.
Yet, with primal nerves I comprehend
it's purity, it's thoughtless artistry enhanced
by freeze.
So perfect the construction seems,
astonishing beauty, a magnified flake of snow;
preserved by frost, strands framed in time;
the maker long dead, unknowing.
Yet, the intent upon creation,
the motive, was to be a killing trap,
I know.
It made me come to realise,
this beauty born of a murder device,
the clever contempt I once believed
to be cooler than smoking cigarettes
beneath a fjord, has turned the tide on me;
freezing me out with coldest solitude in this age
of ice.
Fangs of water hanging down
as ruthlessly sharp as tempered steel;
teeth in the jaws of a loveless corpse, white above the door;
poised an impaling bite, well,
they might as well run me right the way through
and pin me to the snow-driven floor, for all the pain
I'd feel.
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