The Sin of Worship, #44

Cold hands, but they are not cold.
Like ice you can fall through me,
my skin is thin, can’t bear weight,
cracks easily. Once you’ve slid
across me and heard the creak
and fallen through to the lake
below, don’t worry, loving
me quietly makes you numb.
It will be painless, taking
feeling in your hands and feet,
your arms, up your legs, into
your chest. You will simply sleep.
I’ve sunk to the bottom, laid
my eggs in soft dirt, burrowed
low my body to the ground,
covered my face and my skin
with mud. This is how I last.
And when your cold, lifeless form
sinks down to meet me, wonders
where my icy passion lives.
Here, in this mud, where you’re dead
and I hibernate, praying
to your listless form, preserve
you in perfect memory,
resin of ice, love’s amber,
embalmment of history.
The snow comes, laying layers
on branches of trees, laid
thick across the ground, covers
the surface of the lake, cracks
left so no one can track down
what’s left of you. Love me please
I beg. I know I am mud’s
companion, taste its surface,
eat grubs from it’s belly.
Love me, not because I’ve much
to offer, because I’ll keep
you young, gorgeous, forever
encased in frigid safety.
You will never die, never
face aging. My devotion
will keep, my promise
bonded by the cold fingers
of ice, until Spring thawing.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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