Fathom Mag

Icy Adversary

A poem

Published on:
October 23, 2019
Read time:
2 min.
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The creature looms just overhead,
entombing the innocent in ice. With one frosty breath,
he petrifies them into a frozen casket.
If there was once a question of hope,
there’s no one left to ask it.
The faces of his victims stare helplessly back
through the crystalline cage, clear as glass.
Children’s smiles, silenced with cold,
seeping into their skin, and frostbitten bones.
Parents wait expectantly for their children to return home from play,
but the last that they saw them was that chilly winter day.
Be careful not to linger too long in his domain,
Or the echo of your strangled cries will be all of you that remains.
One moment singing,
Of the beauty of the day,
next the frigid wind stinging
Notice how the trees sparkle in the Sun’s golden rays.
But for what the flurries come habringing,
all you can do is pray.
He smells the warmth of your blood in the cold, out of place,
and like a raging flood, roars an eerie, ominous bass.
In a flash of silver and tundra blue, aroused from undreaming sleep,
his opaque armor glows white as the winter coat of sheep.
The largest icicles cannot compare
to the crown of fearsome spikes he bears.
You are locked into the unfeeling gaze
of cruel eyes, filled with a murderous hunger for raze,
beckoning you into their terrible beauty,
no emotion, not a shred,
the monstrous jaws, when opened, cannot be dealt with shrewdly,
you decide to run instead.
Many have marveled at the great expanse of those wings,
like a thousand moonlit skies,
It is said that the moon herself, and stars, look down and try to hide.
From above they look on, in a jealous perplexion,
that God could love a soulless monster so, to grant it such perfection.
Look through the wing’s translucent sheen to see
scales in fractals of shattered glass layered underneath.
From his snout’s tip, to the end of his tail,
King of sleet, snow, and hail,
an armor thick, impenetrable,
like diamond, with strength, unquestionable.
An army of snowflakes wait sharpened to a point,
in their deadly ranks they stand, where his head and back adjoint.
But these go unnoticed, for the eyes, most striking of all,
a universe of glimmering stardust, trapping you in their call,
petrified in the razor stare,
laughingly telling to run, if you dare.
Soul threatens to abandon you now,
away from death’s suffocating grasp, you will not be allowed,
he smirks,
a dangerous threatening grin,
no attempt at escape will work,
he smiles like the devil, when tempting man to sin.
He opens his mouth and not for words,
but for a blast so frigid it’s almost absurd,
the type of cold that slows the heart,
in one long, powerful huff,
numbs the mind, chokes out breath, and tears the skin apart.
With a mere, gentle puff,
breath rank with death’s aroma,
a temperature bordering insanity, enough to give Jack Frost pneumonia.
But the deed is now done, with another figurine,
to guard his wintred sanctuary,
a bitter testimony, for the next to see,
for the dead are never buried,
just displayed in the collection
of the unlucky ones who made the mistake of believing beauty’s deception.
So leave while you can. Run Now. Hurry.
Heroes, lovers,        
criminals, brothers,
people all alike,
stand frozen at eternal warnings
of the creature’s chilly bite.

Micaela Warren
Micaela Warren is a sixteen year old from New Jersey (the vastly superior State). She enjoys reading to procrastinate from the crippling homework load that comes with Junior year, witty banter, and intaking unholy amounts of caffeine. Her greatest accomplishment is managing to survive this long. She resides with two (barely) tolerable little brothers, and her parental units.

Cover image by Zoltan Tasi.

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