Ice

The ice pick slowly chips me away,

Knocking the remains to my feet.

It lets me breathe long enough to sharpen its edge,

Long enough for my lungs to grasp for air

To then have it stolen again from my chest.

The ice pick stabs through the hard exterior that I’ve fought to protect.

It disregards the shape I have come to project.

The form of the being I used to silhouette

Is now a new entity I must touch and beget.

The rusty tip is aggressive as it reaches deep into the crevices.

It reshapes my statue, and it pains the points

That were once nerveless.

The ice pick is relentless.

It throbs at me and ignores my pleas to stop.

I watch its movement: come and go, come and go, come and go.

It penetrates the ice like it’s a vaporous cloud.

I am no longer ice but a crumbling mess to all of its might.

I watch as my form is renewed;

I wonder when the finished product is due.

I will miss the shape I bore before.

Never again mine to adore.

But the ice pick comes and goes, and when it goes,

Let My new shape be adorned forevermore.

it only got better - by MME