The Age of ICE is
The sky did not fall at once.
It hardened.
Clouds learned the weight of stone,
and rain forgot how to be water.
Cities went quiet the way glass goes quiet
after it shatters—
still present,
but no longer forgiving to bare feet.
We called it winter at first,
as if names could soften impact.
As if saying season
might stop the clocks from freezing mid-second.
Oceans locked their jaws.
Rivers held their breath.
History itself slowed,
syllables snapping as they were spoken.
In the streets, the old banners rotted,
ideologies cracking like pond ice in spring—
except spring never came.
Only the echo of belief,
hollow and sharp.
They said ice is the answer.
Ice is order.
Ice is peace.
Ice is forever.
But listen closely and the chant fractures—
ice is becomes Isis
then hisses into something older,
a god made of certainty and fear,
demanding stillness in exchange for meaning.
Not fire, then, that ended us—
but certainty without warmth.
Truth without mercy.
A world preserved perfectly,
and therefore dead.
Yet beneath the frozen ground
seeds still argue with stone.
Atoms still remember motion.
Time, patient as pressure,
waits to crack the sheet.
Because no age is eternal.
Not gold.
Not iron.
Not even this.
And one day, long after the silence,
the ice will admit what it never could:
that at it’s existence
it began to melt.