Ice

I want to become ice. A piece of solid ice. Hot blood pumps through but I never melt. Perhaps if I was this ice I would no longer feel. I sit within the chilly air and look upon the mountains. The sun appears and tiny droplets fall across the glossy clear. The sun eventually falls and I am ice still. Underneath the stars and moon I continue in my arctic home. And life is all the same but beauty always prevails. An icicle forms outside my window. Yesterday one fell right in front of my stepping feet. The shattered glass crunched under me as I tiptoed across. And then I stopped and turned around. I looked down at this broken thing. This thing that could've killed me if I'd walked a little faster. But instead now it was dead. Ground into the sidewalk and no longer anything.