A DISPOSABLE INCOME

My veins, and, soon my heart, freeze; salt-fissures on the wayside of glacial dreams,
unable to warm myself without assistance.

Maybe, deep beneath the surface,
artifacts of power lost from a time before Sanskrit lay still in ignorance's cold embrace,
waiting for the touch of an explorer to cast aside blocks of my ice, black and pure alike.
Maybe a nuclear submarine lays safely below my heart,
remaining ever-vigilant to outside threats in as stricken a manner as I do.
Perhaps in event that all other resources are expended,
thirsty scientists will drag me by ropes and chains to the mainland:
a rare remaining source of fresh water, valuable to be utilized.

When all my positives have been fully expunged,
perhaps I shall find peace in the gradual drift of the continents passing me by,
and the revolutions of the moon that rock the water into waves below me.
When all my coldness has melted into life-giving water,
perhaps I shall be loved, cradled, made useful inside the warmth of a woman's body. Perhaps.

Or maybe I will coalesce into the acrid sea as, unattended,
the world glows with ultraviolet prodigality
and I while away my lonely hours, melting silently,
water running down a smooth, cold face.
It seems, after all, that it takes Titanic outrage to convince the majority that
icebergs are worth noticing.