The Ice Man

Frigid winds tore through the foliage of autumn, sending whirls of amber and earth around the sculpted man of ice, set still among the forest scenery. Lines and curves of the poor artisan’s lathe bulged obscenely, a rough sculpture was he, his imperfections skewing the air in myriad directions. The tall figure stood frozen against the forces of nature surrounding him, merely staring into the abyss of life stretched before his form.
Rays of light reflected from his glossy sheen, the colors of ice scattering into the monochrome air. Shards of hair stretched much too far, twisting and whirling with the shades of autumn and their frigid host. Etched slits of earth peered forward into that abyss, beyond the waves of time and season. Still no movement was made by the man of ice, as tragedies and injustices fell around him like so many leaves of autumn.
Precision of a famous painter, and the levels of a carpenter were used in the sculpting of the form’s head. Straight and level were the icy features, ignorant to all that exists around them, focusing instead on what lay ahead. Each droplet of water, matter of soul that created the man was exquisitely crafted, rounded with care, not chiseled with rage. Still, the sculpted man stood amongst the leaves and wind. Still, the cold-hearted man stood amongst the wreckage of life, the destruction of nations, an apocalypse of eternity, emotionless. His eyes continued gazing far beyond, numbed to the pain.
Despite the statue, his lack of emotion, time still poured from one glass to another. Deep within the frozen shell of a man, a raging fire roared, gradually consuming him from within, for no ice can withstand the flames of passion. Perhaps one day they may work their twisted magic, and leave the sculpture of ice a puddle of emotions and warmth. Perhaps the man might overcome his smoldering soul, extinguish the flames for eternity and remain steadfast amongst the frigid winds. Only the flowing sands of time would tell of the sculpture’s span of life.