Ice in the Sky

Like spikes driving through the back of your head,
Cold metal,
Wiped,
Cleaned,
Until the stench of sterile steel stuffs down into every pore.

You concentrate on the spikes driving through the back of your head,
They hurt less when you think about them.

You adjust your grip.

You focus your brain.

You turned inwards, rotate your eyes on their axis,
Racing messages on trembling axons.

You examine what you have failed to destroy for the majority of your life.

The power that lies on the very tips of your fingers, coiled like a spring, seems to you the distance of the Grand Canyon.

You are at the bottom looking up.

You tighten your spring and begin your ascent.