Black Ice is the epitome of death.
The cold soul of the reaper,
laid upon the earth to pull us towards darkness.
Some slip,
others slide.
the oaf takes it’s power for granted,
experiencing the ice’s death clutch in a snowy bank.
An icy death mother nature can impose,
I scrape the remains.
Be gone torture and pain,
Memories of those who had fallen to what the eye can not see.
Not so much is this poem about ice,
but to remind a fellow of darkness unseen.
Learn from the black ice not only on the ground,
but by our actions as well.
The light will melt it’s short term effect,
and soon the birds will sing a song like the trumpets at the gates of goodness.