The ice is treacherous, twice more,
It gurgles at my feet; denouncing
The victim of its ugly sacrifice.
Snow came of age, a flush
Across its pallid vastness
Is creeping to the outskirts
Of the road.
Iíve got an iron rod
And stains across it,
Iíve got a heart Ė it beats,
Thump, thump, and stop.
Thereís a crust on it Ė from frost,
A vein in ice, and crimson crystals,
Their pointed symmetry no longer melts,
The rod is finely made, it would not break,
It holds onto my fingers like a rose,
Whose petals scatter all across my face
Breathe in, breathe out,
One step, another, 3, 2, 1.
I like these numbers -
Their perfidy surpasses mine.