Thick Skin

Not newborn skinpuddle ice, this.

Calloused, thick,

Barrier excludes blood

From heart of stone

Lest it beat and fulfill its function.

Stubborn film rejects sunshine,

Warmth,

Content to stagnate frozen

In primordial ooze

Lest the mess that lurks beneath

Be exposed, raw in its stench.

Your skin has kept emotions contained,

Given you a measure of control

Over the uncontrollable.

See here, the crown of thorns

Which pierces hearts of ice.

Take hold of the spear

Which alone penetrates

Thick skin.

Be melted.

Drip with awe.

And watch your dirty little secrets

Dry up and turn to dust

Before the Light of the World.

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The Icicle Project

ice.jpg

 

If I were

an icicle

I would melt

into your love

letting go

of the past

like tears

rolling down

cheeks

of glass

On Ice

sunset ice

 

Her dreams have been

immobilized,

flash-frozen tears,

harbingers of pain. But

finger to vein

finds pulse flutters

still – when her dawn

rises, rivers

will flow freely

once more, quenching

her winter soul.

Thin Ice

rockyice.jpg

Her thaw has begun.

But before he can dive into

her soul,

plumb the depths of her spirit,

he must first touch her heart.

And there,

he’s on

thin ice…

Skin

crackledice.jpg

This crackle finish,

this patina of pain

makes her a marked woman.

Grafts,

layers of insulation

against the raw oozing

egress of bodily fluids

let loose from crushed conduits,

won’t stitch to spasms

or bind to burns.

What she needs

is not patches

but a new suit of skin,

armour-clad and seamless,

third-degree love-pierced offering,

to cover smarting soul

with the Balm of Gilead.