The Snow Queen’s Son

The Snow Queen’s Son
By Derek Newman-Stille

The Snow Queen’s son
paints frost on the windows,
ferns that speak of his love of summer,
sketching a world he can no longer belong to.

He pulls
the shard of ice from his heart,
blue with blood,
touching it to the window pane
  Pain
and tracing his art onto the window,
wanting to hide the interior of a warm home
too reminiscent of his loss
a reminder of his exile.

He blows the snow
back and forth
knowing that any of his art
is impermanent
defrosting
into nothingness.

He buries everything in snow
wanting to bury himself,
his feelings,
the grass and weeds and flowers
hidden from his own sight

He is shaped by the cold,
shaping it in turn,
building on the cold by wanting to taste the warmth
every kiss on the face of warm lives
leaves a bitter chill,
vampirically consumes the heat
but leaves nothing of it in his body.
  Impermanent.
    Always waning.

Leaving him hungry
like the wind is hungry
  like the snow is hungry
    like the ice is hungry
leaving emptiness inside of each flake.

The Snow Queen’s son
sees in mirrored gaze
  Glaze
always reflective
and never complete
refracting infinitely
so he only sees himself

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