In a summer land, a kingdom of ice stands upright.
The sun perishes before the stroke which forces masses into stone.
The walls of a neutral core may break alone to give way
to grey rocky protrusions of painless pain,
and defy the natural order to command saline rain.
The shards are alive.
They contain the secrets long lost to men,
yet bane their gist exudes to the soul whose midst is uncouth and strained.
The fiend of the flat nourishment baits with the hand of flatter aliment.
The blob abhors that which translates to growth and refinement,
yet let abhorrence be the might of their supine power.
Down come the storm of glacial fire!
Wash our hands and lend us the eye of the deeper waters.
The shards breathe from borrowed life,
their iridescence stolen from the sweet guitar
that accompanies my cries every night.