Poetry of Ice

From a world where we don't have any control over the ice. Just like the Titanic knows.

To a world in which all the ice is occupied by human activity. It's like oil and gas.

Ice is not a metaphor, but its melting is actual.

Whether art is submerged like a reef

Yet it cannot escape its grandeur in the cold wind.

And the air's crystal flawless. The here and now.

I prefer the cold as the ice, or rather the clear cold.

If you look at it, the ice is capable of something

A lot more than that, man.

Abruptly, we can't sustain despite the air purifiers

From a world in which we have no ice control.