Black Ice

The sun finally settles,
Away from my sight,
Taking with the burning gaze:
Warmth.

Ice stretches out against the night sky,
Frozen moonbeams painting the newly dead dirt floors.
The axis de-centers,
A blow-out on a global scale,
And walking turns into climbing,
Fingernails longing to be ice picks fail,
Sliding where a solid grasp is needed.
The chaos consumes me,
Like an abyssal maw,
A local black hole,
Drawing me towards the point of singularity that every(thing)
Understands as no(thing).
The fear that festers from not-being-seen
Scales and overcomes my mental assurances,
That arise in the form of tentative walls.
It’s looking out from inside me now,
Painting over the silver snow scene that surrounds my wax-statue world,
With the black shade of Nix’s nihilation.
Silver-black blurs rush away,
As I fall towards, sliding, the conjunction between is and not,
Blinking with no differentiation between the darkness outside,
And the blinding nighttime of my inside,
The last light of hope falters,
Staggering to remain standing.
At the pre-emptive moment,
The second-that-lasts-forever before slamming into the first unresponded force,
Light erupts over paintcovered mountain walls,
Ripping away the latex mask that feeds on my sight.
Flames ignite, burning away the the frost,
That kept the world always six inches away,
With a flash of pain, ominpresent and gone.
Slide to a halt,
By a bedside resembling mine.
Heat compels, demands of me,
To make a movement away.
An indentured servant of gratitude,
I wait for nightfall for the chance,
To slip away on black ice,
An accident of nature.

Fire crawls over the horizon,
Reaching across the flash-frozen world,
Thawing away the frostbite, but with it:
Stillness.

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