Winter

She does not thaw in summer,
her iced skeleton a visceral display
of sapphire veins and pulses
bolting in shock to the outskirts
of her shores,
splayed like a victim.

She is perpetual frost,
crying sharp diamond tears
that leave chips across hard flesh like braille,
like fallen teeth from a corpse;
the sun bores down on her,
a searching lighthouse beam,
seeking life and finding none.

Beneath her toughened, glassy eye
is a still-life portrait
streaked in greys and blues,
the sunlight a hazy hue,
an artist's sky-lit canvas
desperate for passion,
for expression,
for life.

She has heart below the surface,
mouth perpetually open in hard desire
for touch, for taste, for talking,
dead eyes glowing in ultramarine,
shadowed by still waves,
held into place by her invisible strength
like the shrunken, forgotten Atlantis.
She has depths but they only sink so far,
she has light but the night puts it out.

She does not thaw in summer,
but remains, as ever, in place;
a face without expression,
an empty vessel,
winter.