Hanging upon the precipice of insanity
Fervently, yet dreading, the inevitable drop
The senile icicle awaits the moment
When its scintillating would all be for naught.

Slow drips of tears fall quietly
Splattering on the cold, angry ground below
Shakes of silent, violent rage
Threaten the icicle's precarious hold

With downcast thoughts of impending doom
The icicle tried no tries
It merely glance up at the sun
Which would soon lead to its demise

The burning of the certain future
Drove deep inside its soul
And ate away at his sane mind
Till a real hole was bore

Another drip, another sorrow
Another lifespan shortened too quick
And finally the last of the icicle
Fell into a puddle slick