Skimming the surface,
scanning the horizon,
one can find a million
fancy costumed bodies,

Sample all the kinds
of fun one can conjure.
But such a short program,
even when perfected,

Only lasts minutes.
Such a superficial
spinning seems impressive
but is in fact devoid

Of any substance—
It's mimicry far cry
from the gift of long walks
with one within you left

Somewhere in your youth.
An inconvenient truth
waits at the edge of a
void dance across the ice.