The Iceberg

On the other side of the mirror is an iceberg where backward souls have come to roost. The ocean streaks her fingers across its belly every chance she sees, catching the tireless beneath her fingernails and scraping them down to her palpitating chest.

Resignation is in their stranded hearts as they indifferently loiter, their idle fingers aimlessly doodling in the sun-burnt snows, and no cry of fear or remorse escapes their thickened throats.

It is their accusing eyes that shiver back at you from the icy glass as the freezing waters fill their lungs and stain their onion skins blue. It is their blurry faces that haunt your murky reflections and disturb your jealous admiration.

The iceberg is slowly melting under the sun's reflection. The freezing waters have begun to rise--are now flooding through the mirror, urgent and crystalline. The ocean throws her whole weight behind the supreme flow.

She carries forgotten bodies through with her, littering living rooms, an undignified intrusion. They float on the currents, bleached debris, and are pitched to the floor like frozen lumber where they infect the carpets and stain the furniture.