The Frost Glass Queen
Where the compass spins and the North Winds meet,
Exists a palace of the sleet.
No brick or mortar, wood or clay,
But diamond walls that catch the day.
And there, upon a throne of glaze,
The Ice Maiden counts the holiday days.
Her hair is spun from platinum light,
Reaching her waist in a flow of white,
Ice-blonde tresses, smooth and shear,
Like frozen waterfalls, crystal clear.
A crown of snowflakes rests on high,
Reflecting the depth of the polar sky.
She needs no hearth with a crackling fire,
For the cold is her joy and her heart’s desire.
She decks her halls in a different way,
With garlands of frost for the holiday.
She reaches up where the night gets thin,
And pulls the Aurora Borealis in.
Green and violet, sweeping and bright,
She drapes the ribbons of Northern Light
Across the pillars of carved glacier ice,
A decoration of exorbitant price.
The chandeliers are icicles long,
That tinkle a delicate, glass-like song.
The polar bears dance on the marble floor,
While arctic foxes guard the door.
She raises a goblet of melted snow,
And watches the world in the lands below.
She blows a kiss from her lips so pale,
Sending the magic of winter's gale.
"Merry Christmas," she whispers, a soft, cold sound,
As snow begins falling all around.
It’s not the heat, but the shimmer she brings,
The crystalline beauty of frozen things.
Long may she reign in her silver air,
The Queen with the flowing, ice-blonde hair.
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