The Iceman

A prince
In his own time.
Blond and proud
The world his oyster.

The throne awaited him
Or so he was told.
Absorbed in fantasies
Of being more than he then was.
He dreamed
Of being a king.

Grey clouds loomed in the distance.
He paid them no heed.
Under his layers he felt warm and safe,
Above the elements.
Untouchable.

And so he was alone
When the storm came.
He clung to his fur coat, hands red and raw.
Braving the chill.
He though the worst was over.
He was wrong.

The avalanche rumbled and swelled
It swept him off his feet.
Trapped. Powerless. Not even knowing
The sky from the soil. His breaths quick and shallow.

His heart pounded
Then slowed
As he began to accept
His fate.
In the end, he didn’t even feel
The cold.

The pain awoke him.
Unbearable. And scalding.
The hell he didn’t dare consider
Was burning him alive.

Burning him back to life.
A phoenix, reborn from the icy depths.
They called him
A miracle. A medical marvel.
Blessed.
And he smiled and nodded.
Though he felt cursed.

His family. Dead.
His friends. Lost.
His fame. Forgotten.
His future. Past.

He tried to adjust, God knows he tried.
To the whirrs and the buzzes
And the bustle and the rush
Of this brave new world.

But among all the smiling strangers
He knew not a single friendly face.
Each offered him a hand
Which he refused to take.

After all,
Why touch
What one cannot feel?

This was not
The world he had imagined.
This world had no place for a
Lumbering,
Confused,
Pathetic
Caveman.

The world he knew
Was lost to him forever.
So he returned
To the wildness
That he once called home.

And with a shovel
He dug himself a pit
Six feet long
And six feet deep
In the ice.