Drycicles

Last night the snow started singing,

Initially it was just noise and riot, riot and rage

Rage and fury

That whipped through this whirlwind,

The lunar chariot driven by

Winged horses of wind at my window

Luring, securing what’s now a mighty

Fortress of Snow

The polar armadas marched below, in an

Invasion of privacy of the earth, frozen solid

Sullen it was just before cracking fragile

Crusts of ice; it was nice to behold

Even nicer to listen to their song, yielding

Words never uttered, forgotten,

Untold.

When the dust settles down on the conflict ,

You will get what is offered,

Would have bought

What is suffered

By God.

The true blessing of life is to live as you will,

Staying still, for a second,

At the wonder of stars, souls of ash, and of carbon delight,

Out of fear came the fight,

Then the peace

Then the bliss.

I am home.

Her gaze was the colour of a dried icicle,

Pyramidal in nature, with reflections of dust

She was mirroring now what had passed in the past,

In the lingering days of a pray for a miracle.

Why would one give a life so God taketh away?

Why would one tear it up in the snow, in the ice,

Tears dried up, once a month, once a day,

Once a life,

In the shape of the icicle

Neverending

And dry.

Broken people are like ice puppets,

Frozen,

Transparent and cold

Sometimes so childish, most times so

Incredibly old.

Broken people are like ice puppets,

So smooth and curvaceous, yet abrasive and

Rigid,

When she shouts I hate you he smiles

You are

Frigid.

I made a gargoyle out of clay

The other day.

Now, you will ask, of all the things man could create

Why would you craft a monster?

I made it small, so it could fit inside my left atrium

I made it tall, so it could block my left ventricle.

I made a gargoyle to silence my heart, and my heart-beats.

So when I feel tempted to look back on my past,

I pump a shot of gargoyle blood.

I pump a little gargoyle poison.

And then the shiver brings me back.

Every snowflake that falls is a silent, repetitive goodbye,

Laying quietly, lavishly on the fields of tomorrow,

On the fields of today filled with ice; oozing

Memories stay,

Memories linger,

Memories fly.

I have no recollection of the first winter of farewells, nor the one after,

And still cover this ignorance with bouts of irrepressible shout,

To my miserable girth that gave birth to this laughter,

For a second the snow fills itself with a ridicule doubt

There must be a kill-switch for my cathartic experience,

This puny absurd schizophrenic collection,

And to every snowflake that imposed this detection,

I project cannibalistic feelings of eternal deliverance.

Thus I swallow each silent repetitive goodbye,

Laying quietly, lavishly on the fields of tomorrow,

Hello memories dearest…

Here is a story about

My first memory in snow, the tiniest of angels;

And a print of my boot

Then the heavens cried ice, because God always could,

And I wouldn’t.

So one ran and that’s it, they agreed,

Minuscule memories buried as if it’s never been,

Never did.

Temporarily lost in small mountains of rust

Scintillating with age,

Freshly adorned with a coat of white powder,

Was it small molecules of ice, was it snow,

Was it dust?

Screaming in agony, shrieking memories,

Shouting louder

This is what I recall of the past; I once made memory in snow

As a small angel; and a print with my boot,

Never cried, never would,

Never could