I want to make an icicle From rain drops That have fallen for miles, Through clouds With linings of every color, Just to crash like cars On old shingles Gritty and grooved with age.
Those drops would converge As they weave their way down A maze of gables and smoking vents Finally to pool in rusty gutters, That have not been cleaned out in years.
It’s cold in December, and windy in Manhattan. Now All I need is discipline. I must overflow, Precisely.
Forming my icicle like a tooth Slowly, and from the inside out longer, sharper.
Until…SNAP It’s no longer mine.
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My hope is that it hits, Through hair, flesh and bone, An unsuspecting mind. Instantly frozen and rearranged.
Or if not hit Shatter close enough to move Those that crowd below.