A kingdom locked beneath a mile of blue,
Where chandeliers of frozen salt descend;
A world the burning summer never knew,
Where every broken path must surely end.
The courtiers are statues made of slush,
In gowns of rime and lace of jagged sleet;
The heavy air is thick with cold and hush,
Above the glitter of the glassy street.
A traveler touches at the throne of hail,
To feel the sting of winter’s final breath;
His heartbeat flickers, ghostly thin and pale,
Within the architecture of a frozen death.
The ice begins to crawl across his skin,
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