“Don’t let the ice cycles fall on you, it will hurt.” my mother yells as they fall from the shingles in the cold and frosty winter weather.
That memory plays in my mind like a broken record. Here I sit holding an ice cycle just as sharp as the ones That I used to stick my tongue to just for fun and games. Except I’m not playing no games and I’m not having no fun. These cycles are not falling from above and my mother’s warning is almost but a faint whisper in the back of my mind.
Your color such a beautiful clear almost light blue that blends with the sky above shining like the melted crystal I have in this cycle. Except my tongue doesn’t stick to this one and I can’t feel it’s frost on my finger tips.
every one of you so unique in its own way, beautiful as a sight to behold in the December morning air. Yet as I’m getting older it’s becoming true that the beauty in your design becomes the same with the color change I see when you fall Onto me while the glass pane in front of me stops your fresh winter air from healing my lungs.
My mother’s warning is silenced as the tip of the ice cycle Peirces my skin like the warm cup of cocoa I once held when I came Inside after admiring your beautiful glacial cycles for the last time. Here I sit as the last memory I have of u Fades as slow as the warm icy liquid I’ve come to know takes hold of my mind and soul as it races its way through my veins all because I didn’t listen to mother and I let the ice cycles fall straight into me.
As a Young girl I used to admire your Wonderous glacial Beauty from afar But it was never enough so I let you fall onto me.
And mother I promise you, these ones don’t hurt they scare the hurt away.. ❄
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