The Iceman

Iceman

He stood, sinewed in silver,
not a speck of color in his world.
Not a love, not a hate, just a view,
crystal clear, nothing near, nothing far.

He stretched out his hand,
and one might think that the air grew cold,
but it changed naught, for the same was he,
unchanged throughout, he was but taking a step.

Then a rose blocked his path,
and he grabbed it, and gasped.
He could not let go, for two milky palms pressed his close.
Roses have thorns you know, red streams from iced veins arose.

And as the color speckled into his eyes,
the Iceman had his demise.