Frozen Water~Prose Poetry!

Frozen Water by Theresa C. Gaynord

Frozen water is his element. It speaks to him through the splitting, spurting chips that violently break away from the clump, retelling in touch that what looks strong, can be weakened, reshaped, into something else. Sometimes creating art is like watching the world go by with one eye. In the beginning there are various tasks. You use the proper instruments; rotate this way and that, polishing every angle while wearing protective gear. The breaths you take are given off as light, vibrating in and out with a slow mechanical hum that warms, gesturing the imitation of rain. The outcome is a reflection of brilliant beaded light, cool and silent, like a whisper that is erased from the expanse of time.

He thinks of her this way, within the sensuous wrecks of beauty that he moves, rips, and adds layers to, wrapping every part tighter and tighter with immobilization, more alive than her being. Here, her essence will merge with his, over her likeness. He can feel the power that blasts through his genius, through his rough idea of domination. His defeat shall become his victory, and the world will shriek, quietly masculine, as he walks and kicks through puddled water with the candor of eloquence. This is the source of his survival, the way he escapes from failure, from her pursuing an answer to the reason he broke off their engagement. In relationships, one always serves the other, becoming less than the other. She is strong. And he fears.

He looks at himself in the mirrors of frozen water. He cut himself shaving, scraped away the flesh, bleeding. He thinks he may need forgiveness though he doesn’t believe much in God anymore. The premise of their union is on his mind in the reflection of desire. He remembers how she was always trying to make something beautiful a capable part of his life. She’d write him poems, see him with no judgments, laugh at his jokes, and weep at his sensitivity. It didn’t matter to him that she was already married, pain loves pain and it makes for great art. He never told her how much he loathed poetry. He never told her a lot of things. At times like this he thinks life would be better if he were different, yet he is different; a victim of a love that will eventually melt away into nothing.