Watch them, fear them, never touch them;
The screaming crystals reaching backwards
The timeless rivers flow anointed.
Confused, misguided, helpless believers;
Chasing never ending gospels.
And while time yields not a strict obedience
Till that crimson flower blossoms
And the horizon paints a living fire.
You cradle the reader in passion, and I'm particularly drawn to the multiple connotations... I say, it's quite amazing that such power can merge from so few words...
'Till that crimson flower blooms
And the horizon paints a living fire'
I see so much more than icicles, whether or not deliberate, your tapestry is selective and a brilliant means of conveying fire and ice in its most symbolic form...
I must admit, if you hadn't said what this was about, I would have had little to no clue. Your metaphor is...stretched to say the least, but for however difficult a spin it is to put on it, you manage it well. I should not be surprised, I suppose, since most of your work appears to be metaphorical.
One thing...compared to the shortness of the poem, the picture is a little...big. Very distracting. Maybe not the greatest idea.
A very interesting and different view on icicles.. here portrayed as demons.. yet the beauty is immeasurable when the sunlight shines off their draping crystal forms.. much like a thorn to a rose.. they can pierce and cause damage. There are so many other metaphors here.. towards religion.. life.. choices.. this made a reader think!