The river of time flows fast, untold—
Too wild to bend, too narrow to row.
Strange how the past cuts deep in soul,
Yet melts like frost in morning’s glow.
Who sees the shapes beneath the ice?
The lives not lived, the roads not trod?
Are we but echoes, paying the price
For paths we chose—or those we dodged?
Or are we less: just cracks in stone,
A hollow where the dark has grown?
No hell will break—just blood and bone,
Silence, thick as ice below the snow.
This poem is a meditation on memory, regret, and the elusive nature of identity over time. It explores how the past lingers beneath the surface—both haunting and vanishing—like shapes beneath ice. Through stark winter imagery and restrained lyricism, the speaker questions whether we are shaped by the choices we made, the ones we fled, or by something colder and more impersonal: silence, entropy, and time itself.
