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.