Ice Age

Strands of sugared spider web hang from the heavy, sagging eaves; brittle as bird bone, fragile as virgin love; complex as the human soul. Yet, with primal nerves I comprehend it's purity, it's thoughtless artistry enhanced by freeze. So perfect the construction seems, astonishing beauty, a magnified flake of snow; preserved by frost, strands framed in time; the maker long dead, unknowing. Yet, the intent upon creation, the motive, was to be a killing trap, I know. It made me come to realise, this beauty born of a murder device, the clever contempt I once believed to be cooler than smoking cigarettes beneath a fjord, has turned the tide on me; freezing me out with coldest solitude in this age of ice. Fangs of water hanging down as ruthlessly sharp as tempered steel; teeth in the jaws of a loveless corpse, white above the door; poised an impaling bite, well, they might as well run me right the way through and pin me to the snow-driven floor, for all the pain I'd feel.