It's tough surviving,
On the shifting paper pack-ice,
For ninety years or so.
You've just settled on one bit,
Put up your tent,
Drawn a map of its intricately distinctive outline,
Declared yourself an island state,
And you think it's home.
When it breaks apart.
And if you're lucky,
You won't be on the fault line,
And crumble with a series of insignificant plops,
Into the knife-icy sea.
You may or may not be
On the same remaining half
As your tent and your comrades,
As they drift off forever.
And as the kind summer sun comes,
The cracks become more frequent.
As the paper pack ice basks in its warmth
Until one inevitable day (you don't know when)
You sink with a plop into the sea.
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