Arctic Americans

We stand on the thin ice of beliefs and morals Underneath, an icy river that mirrors an icy hell Those plump with greed lay on the shore Wilting tulips and withered oak trees decorate their beds Fat fingers plucking black berries dyeing their lips a deadly shade of purple The ice cracks constantly at our feet the distance between bank and abyssal arctic seems immeasurable the silence is deafening shattered only by the snapping of the floor Some turn their gaze towards the shrouded heavens Yet their weight on the Earth is a constant reminder of their mortality Their static pose betray them How they wish they were Gods Others sprint towards a muddy and coagulated shore Leaving destruction in the form of pounding footprints on the thin ice All the while the pigs look And laugh remnants of crushed berries spewing from the crevices on their face So where do I stand? Will I be lucky enough to ease my way to the bay? Or shall I recite the ancient hymns burned into my skull? Hoping an illusive being will come to my rescue when he has never done so before. Yet the reality remains the same I stand on a crackling icicle of a world Hoping to find a flame, or even a spark to keep this mind from falling falling into a coma of frost