Poem #44: The Icy Wall

The icy wall before them, they sat in an irregular circle, hands on their knees and heads bowed. Wintertime was their one glory, the only time that the tempestuous earth seemed to agree with them. It became cold, gloomy, as they were year round. Light barely even reflected through the frozen waterfall, and where it did, gave off blue and purple hues.

“It looks like a bruise,” one of them mumbled, breaking the silence that haunted their melancholy group.

There was no response.

A fire flickered in the middle of their circle, struggling, like them, a bare blue wisp of light billowing more smoke than flame. It had been constructed haphazardly with no regard for size or design, and so it failed to produce warmth.

They all wore thick coats of a dark material which enveloped their bodies, to counteract the futility of their fire. Together they looked like minuscule bears hiding in a cave, hidden behind a wall of glass that would not shatter, even in this cold. One of them peered out, seeing nothing but frost and suffering trees.

Inside their bare sanctuary, the dirt floor was layered with slick ice and the walls dripped inconsistently along to their own rhythm. A lantern glowed, inefficient, casting wilder shadows juxtaposed with those from the fire, turning all of their faces orange and yellow.

They breathed in unison, filling the space with smoke, with hopes, with dreams that glowed cerulean for only seconds before flickering out.

Like the fire, like the lantern, like the insubstantial wishes, they were evanescent.


***
What? Did I hear you say prose? Really? No Way!

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