the ice jam of words
long lodged in the back of my throat
has begun to melt
syllable by delicious syllable
that tickle going down
roil in my gut
conscious
kinetic
unsettled
pressure of repressed feeling building
against the shapeshifting mass
that remains
blocking my flow
will I exhale delicate crystals into
my waiting palms
cough playful snowballs
that explode harmlessly on contact
or will I shout ice daggers
that penetrate
sting with icy reproach
draw blood that stains the pristine landscape?
© 2018 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved
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