Mortals are not the only things to fall.

Ideas fall.

Words fall.

Icicles fall.

But what is left in the wake of each?

I think of this because

I met her who once stood in that wake

without a turning

of the bleeding heart.

This ideal she held has burned,

thrice now leastwise,

and those three ash-mounds

were hard to comprehend.

Is she blind, or did

icicles turn to glass daggers,

or both?

She stood below when they fell.

A Hand reached out to catch them,

but she scratched The Keeper away,

screamed,

and her eyes were pierced.

Hate and bitterness

flowed in the purple blood.

The cold could have been her friend

had she blessed the ice

as a gift

to quench fiery darts.

But she clenched anger,

and now the fate she welcomed

has drawn its promise out

slowly, painfully, icily.

The cold is killing her.

She is freezing herself to death.

Her identity was in the ice,

and the ice has cracked.