Crunchy crystals of sparkling perfection,
Melting into a velvety slurry on the tip of the tongue.
As white as freshly sugared marshmallows,
And just as sweet:
It's just a different sort of sweetness.
The hands turning the page,
To the next chapter,
Of a book called "Time."
Confetti sent from the heavens,
To shower the land in a sensational sprinkle of ice.
Call it imaginary, flavorless, calorie-free ice cream,
A subzero fluffy pillow,
Or the chilliest medium for art.
It can't be everything,
But it can be something.
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