I offer the world a jagged crown of white,
A modest peak for the sun to strike and blind.
You see the salt-crust, the sharp, predictable edge,
The \"hello\" that freezes mid-air,
A polite geometry of ice against a restless sea.
But do not mistake the tip for the mountain.
(The Submerged Cathedral)
Below the waterline, I begin in earnest.
I am a blue-black architecture of compressed years,
Where memories are not felt, but preserved;
Hardened by the weight of a thousand atmospheres
Into a logic so dense it sinks through the noise.
Here, the light of the sun is a distant rumor;
I am governed by the slow, heavy pull of the deep.
(The Calculation of Cold)
Do not call me cruel; call me thermal.
I have calculated the cost of the storm
And found that the surface waves are merely frantic.
Let the hurricanes scream and the currents pull;
I do not drift with the wind\'s latest whim.
I move with the tide of Necessity,
A slow, tectonic slide toward a destination
That only the silent floor of the ocean understands.
(The Unseen Collision)
You see a stillness and call it peace.
It is not peace; it is a permanent readiness.
I am the gravity that breaks the hull of the frantic;
I am the silence that swallows the cry of the gull.
To touch me is to realize how much of me is missing,
How much of this \"I\" is a hidden, frozen empire
Of things decided long ago,
And kept behind a wall of absolute zero.
(The Final Thaw)
One day, the climate of the world will change.
I will shed my edges and return to the salt.
But until then, I remain:
Visible enough to be known,
Deep enough to be dangerous,
And cold enough to stay whole.