O heart, soul, core, me: If I do exist, I am exactly pristine in condition Under the surface of a pond Frozen in eternal ice.
O want, wish, will, dream: The ice that denies life, Sapping its oppressive strength, Transforming its innocent weakness; Making brittle the bold, Making hard the soft.
O form, frame, flesh, face: The palm of my hand Is spread against the bottom of the ice, Reaching up as though to grasp All the nothing I aspire to.
how cold is the beauty and perfection of appearance