So deep,
way under pressure,
living in the water,
under a thick coat of ice,
where even the land light,
just can’t break through,
yet castes a glow,
a mist of lighten fog,
through the humming whitecaps,
taking away,
a dying bubble breath,
so thin,
but doesn’t choke away the life,
but doesn’t fully embraces life,
so confusing,
yet through the mist,
finding a way through the ice,
where a escaping gasp is there,
where the water and land meet,
where is it,
where is it,
where . . .
just where,
is there realm of mirroring folks,
where is it,
where is it,
where is it,
out there,
far away,
an acid flesh burning,
bone cell crushing,
knife vein cutting,
rape drug boom came,
where,
just where,
the coldness slows everything down,
kicking and clawing to move,
smoothly through beneath the ice,
a flash comes again,
and again,
and again,
leaving unsure if the last one,
broke through the water as a scream,
or what it was that broke the ice,
with just a splinter of fresh air breaking in,
alerting the whitecaps away in fear,
to itself,
or the being near that tries to breath,
but can’t wheeze a chance,
only to let the mind cloud,
and visualize,
so odd,
so strange,
so alluring,
what could this be,
above,
moving so carefully,
jolting away a second late,
when it comes again,
enlarging the scar forming in the ice,
brighten a beam such a warm,
unknown glow in,
reaching out to touch,
for a moment burns,
yet leaves no mark,
could that mean,
of what it would mean,
having it should have mean,
unfinished answer,
goes on,
for it needs an answer,
to form a certain,
topic of question,
to in which,
reaching out again,
letting the waterlog decay of river frost,
give an chance,
letting the burn take place,
watching as the frost melts,
skin dries,
harden as well that clay would blush from the quickness,
once the salt bitters the winter ice block ocean,
there becomes an awakening,
having a brush of courage or stupidity does the next move,
resulting having the open hand,
become the open eye,
and look up,
blind fool,
as many others,
tricked away,
the brightness is not a answer,
just a ploy,
for those who barely look up and keep to what they know,
what they want,
not asking for anything else,
for on how petty dreaming and wishing becomes,
so blind the fool,
quick to jump,
quick to lose it all,
and for what,
the life of exotic adds to what,
to what really,
what is below the ice,
and what breaks through the gray stormy clouds,
what does it add up for others,
divvied unknowingly by the elements,
appealing to what is new,
and very welcome,
because it breaks all the rules,
without a fail in showing,
that it did,
underneath the ice,
central point of land,
midpoint of the water,
superior than the clouds,
equal to the gleam,
coat shamelessly by murkiness,
what does that all mean,
and end for all,
leaving for now,
an open window chance,
is a risk,
sweet or sour,
is just how one takes it,
dead or alive,
where does your mind to be,
when looking to the world,
on just the elements alone,
ending on,
good luck . . .
deceive mastermind.

 

 

 

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