The Frost Queen in a desolate land
of clockwork tufts of snowy ember,
stares blankly with onyx charcoal eyes.
Beneath a haze of sickly gray sky,
her moon-stone body once tall slinks limp,
and once-warm lungs let raw ice bites win.
A gale of bitterness shreds by her
And thus brings forth a crystalline tear:
A tear of her ashen-smothered crown
Beneath a monotonous white veil,
succeeded by a hat of dark silk.
She once fought with piping-hot valor,
and the rage of eternal arctic,
to protect her winter wonderland
from turning into bleak December.
The Queen once stood for blue icicles,
but gave into their transparency.
So the Frost Queen’s winter tear recedes
into onyx eyes that once saw all,
but now see only the conformed dust.