Words From the Fragile Spire

The Ice Cube That Never Melts

Like firewood, collected to be burned,

or apples, picked only to be eaten,

some things find their purpose in this strange world

in the sour breadth of their self-destruction.

An ice cube, crafted by the hand of man

for a lemonade on a summer's day,

suffers through purposelessness, frozen,

until the warmth of time melts it away.

So why, my son, should I live forever?

My clothes, I give to you, to be re-worn.

A phoenix is no more than a weaver

if it waives its purpose to be reborn.

Why would I trade my love for something else,

when cold is the ice cube that never melts?