Snow Queen

My breath crystallizes into

gentle and harsh frozen art

over thick window glass.

I look in on those

beautifully warm families with

their ruddy cheeks and

sparkling liquid eyes of joy.

They sit around their

burning hearths, palms outstretched

to welcome the heat of the flames.

I outstretch my own hand

and rest it upon

the window glass.

Frost spirals out onto

the transparent surface from

underneath my pale palm

and fingertips.

Sharply, I retract my hand

to my side.

The frost I created lingers

before it melts into a collective

puddle on the outside sill

underneath the glass.

With the clearing of the frost,

I see my reflection.

 

An inhuman humanoid form

peers back at me.

Her skin is pale blue with

eternal frostbite,

lips parted in silent surprise.

Wonder. Sadness.

Her eyes are

impenetrable orbs of hard blue ice.

Nothing is expressed there.

All emotion has withdrawn

into a frozen hibernation

deep within her icy soul.

It is a forever damnation.

She is an alien in

a foreign land of changing

seasons and feelings.

She knows not the customs

of warmth and the society

of feeling.

 

The alien"me, I remember"

can never hope to know

what those ruddy-cheeked

beings through the window

glass regularly know.

I bring them winter.

My fingers caress the

clouds and the sky,

tempting them and tickling them.

They release gentle droplets

of moisture, which my fingers

coax and cut into sharp and

breathtaking flakes of snow.

Here that one appears like

a glorious star, its edges

pointed and sparkling.

There that one curves everywhere

like an aged mother.

My hands dance across

the starry, black night.

I beckon the flurries.

I beckon the flakes.

I beckon the arctic winds.

My breath unleashes

the harsh frostbite that nips

at the heels of street stragglers,

an unruly stray dog

desperate for sustenance.

My slow waltz brings

the snowstorm, gradually

gathering strength and

coating the world in a glittering

blanket of diamond snow.

My quick pirouettes

draw in the blizzard.

The storm strengthens and

howls in time to each

of my graceful ballerina’s steps.

When my work is complete,

I return to my sleigh.

I climb in and hitch the reins.

The sleigh is carried on

the fierce winds back to  

the North, the frigid abode

of my ice castle.

 

I walk the halls in

my thick white furs.

My footsteps echo

through the halls and great rooms

of ice.

Everywhere I see my reflection

in the unfeeling and perpetual

ice walls and floors.

Everywhere I ignore what

my eyes register to my mind.

I sit upon my magnificent

and brilliant throne of ice.

I was ornately chiseled

by my own hands,

as was my entire ice castle.

The throne is as tall

as I, as wide as I,

with great thickness to bear

each century’s wear.

In its columns, I carved

elegant swans.

Some are resting, wings demurely

folded against their bodies.

Some are captured midflight,

wings flung out to capture

the next breeze to life them

into the sky.

In its row, I carved

varying images of forest creatures:

bears, reindeer, robins, squirrels,

and many more.

The back piece of the throne

is adorned with figures

of snowflakes and frost,

a reminder of my true nature.

I sit upon my throne in its

downy cushion of freshly fallen snow

(the softest of all snow).

 

I gaze upon my throne room.

Its walls, like the walls

of all the castle’s rooms,

are bare of any decoration.

I ache for no richness

of decoration, for it never

pleases my eyes.

I long for no food or water

on which to live.

I died long ago.

I desire no company,

human or any other sort.

All lead short lives in comparison

to my own, never-ending one.

I can never touch them,

which would mean an end

to their short lives.

It is not good to want

too much of humans.

They can never truly understand

and love wonderful and

unknown things.

I bring them nothing more

than winter, which they enjoy

and do know.

I work at night to leave

my art for them to awake

and to love for a time.

It is not permanent, but I am.

They will forever remember

what I have brought them

in memories of family gatherings

and exciting holidays.

 

The only decoration is

the mirrored desolation of my castle.

When I walk it, the only decoration

is my mirrored figure.

Everywhere, my inanimate face

peers back at me.

The expression never falters

from its cold winter.

Sometimes it changes into one of

frustration, anger, or sorrow.

Sometimes the ice is broken

by my passionate hand

into tiny crystalline fractals

that slide and scatter across

the icy floor.

Sometimes…gentle tears will fall

from the eyes of that reflected face.

They freeze instantly upon

meeting the subzero air.

They free-fall through the air

before crash-landing and shattering

upon the icy floor.

Like the ice, they slide and scatter

across the floor, crying a

bittersweet and tinkling melody

as they dance.

Eventually, their melody

fades into inevitable silence,

the silence of winter.

Then, her emotion is once again

withdrawn into the frozen hibernation

and the forever damnation

of a snow queen’s icy soul.

Author's Note

There are moments when I feel terribly isolated from other people, sometimes feeling so cold and distant. Unfeeling. Alien. Sometimes I believe I will never be apart of anything.

Reviews

[Devesh]

I'll be honest here, your poem reminds me strongly of a scene in ' A Christmas Carol' by Dickens. I could imagine yourself as Scrooge, standing with the Ghost of Christmas, staring at a family through a window, a sad witness to a happy scene. I love the way you render every emotion a physicallity of sorts and every movement an emotion. This is poetry at its best. Spellbinding, it was! Great job!
Now to the other part, remember that you are never alone. You're not the only one who feels isolated, there are others. I'm one of those people. I've met many others. You are not alone in your loneliness. Just trust that it will pass. It occurs to all of us, phases where we feel that we don't belong. You're not alone and you never will be. Stay strong!

[E.V. Black]

It is hard to remember that I am not alone. I often forget sometimes, because of a strong habit from the past. I have to force myself to remember, but, when upset, I forget quite quickly. But it only comes every so often, not as often as it used to. I deeply appreciate your words. I smile and know I am not alone, although it may feel that way.

Thank you for enjoying my piece. I believe it to be one of the loveliest pieces I have written in a long while.

[Devesh]

It's good to know that it doesn't happen all that often now. You're most welcome! :) I agree, I think this is one of the best poems I have read on this website. Thank you for sharing this. Keep smiling! :)