Like a block of ice melting from the inside out.
Sitting, waiting, expecting.
An event was supposed to happen,
And I am in possession of blind trust.
Black butterflies are perched in my hair,
Dusting a world with sleeping powder,
Falling softly from their wings.
There is a snowy white cat limp in my lap.
His empty eyes inspeact my heart,
I run my fingers through his fur; he is warm.
Before me is a painting,
There is a boat.
A boat on the open sea,
But it is stormy, and the boat is rocked.
Dark clouds ring the sky,
And jagged bolts of lightning crash down through the roar.
The boat bobs merrily,
And sails billow cheerfully with the wind.
I can almost see the tiny Captain,
Excitedly puffing on his pip,
As his ship mounts a crested wave.
The string holding the picture to its hook,
Is frayed and split.
I can feel a staring gaze; I am being watched.
It is the skipper. He is angry.
He is melting ice.
I have a salt lick in my mouth;
A vast empty desert of bones and cactus heads.
The centre is a cold, hard cube.
It is clear, and hollow.
Like a block of ice melting,
From the inside - out.
