Ice.

by Engel.

*** *** ***

Ice sees everything, you know. When it covers the ground where the snow has melted and refrozen, or simply rained down then froze, it sees all things above it. It's rebirth as a bastard child gives it quite a bias, and it's unforgiving nature is sealed with it's future. It hurts people, causes them to love their balance, perhaps to recheck their balance in the world, lest they slip and fall again. It kills people too, inadvertently acting as a catalyst to their own faults, their failure of walking, and they fall and die.

I can walk on ice. It's not really that hard, stayed grounded, moving slowly in the dark night across ice-slimed sidewalks and crusted yards. I hate the noise it makes, the bright white ice that cracks under every movement because it has been corrupted by air, the adulterating oxygen seeping underneath, undermining it's security and separating it from it's mother earth. As you step on it, it cries out in agony, splitting it's belly open as oxygen eats up the entrails, devouring and escaping unscathed after hat was simply a matter of time, of patience for it's kill.

The black ice is so much kinder. If you walk carefully you don't need to see it, but you can see it nonetheless, shining in its cloudy, reflected matter night sky way. It remains pure, clouded by the memories of it's mother earth, dark and quiet, not making a sound, remaining safe from harm as it's parent clutches it close. As you glide over, no sound emerges, only the whisper of greeting that it gives to you, a welcoming happiness against it's mother's bosom.

The darkness is nice and comforting, welcoming and gentle, kindly hiding and revealing, shining and glittering in it's eternal sadness of melting away.

*** *** ***

This page and all works within are copyrighted 2000 to Engel. Don't steal.