Your thoughts like dancers, sliding across ice,
Unwilling figures leaping towards answers,
It's the shallow fall which led them into hiding,
But the composition's not concise.
They claw their way through dignity,
Their footsteps leaving lacerations,
Scratching through what you could be,
The water-ice bruised in oscillation.
Though still pretty in this softened state,
All that was grazed restores in the thaw,
A chance to remunerate, recreate
But the art is lost on the melting shore.
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