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icicle stares
Four millimeters of tempered glass separates your world
from the Homeless Beggar Prince now standing before you
appearing tattered, torn and trampled on like discarded trash.
No longer a viable phoenix rising to escape winter’s burn.
Merely a grounded mortal traversing icicle stares with an
aged back and fingers that he had once worked to the bone.
Long forgotten building blocks for a house and a home
Blizzards came tirelessly with every season to wreak havoc upon his
crumbled foundation. Putting him out into the cold to face the face, of our
harsh reality, where it’s a tundra full of thin ice, and a dog eat dog world.
Piercing watery eyes reflect upon your hidden self, and his frost
laden beard parts to say aloud “If not by the grace of God…there go I.”
White knuckles grip your steering wheel tightly as the chill exits your spine
“Thank God!” you exclaim, now, that the traffic light has turned green.
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