Jill Frost

She looks out,

the glass half mirrored,

half crystalline,

all a glow

in the golden light of morning,

a flicker of an ember within her

But her reflection is hollow,

haunting,

a ghostly, otherworldly visage,

caught between natures glass

and pane.

The warmth inside

feels foreign to her now,

echoes of other eras beckon.

Her memories trace the time

she reached out her warm breath

and it caught in the air,

held like it was sacred,

for a moment.

Captivated she reached out her hand,

grasping for more beauty here

Her fingers touched

the frozen solid ground

and she trembled.

Her fingertips had found

the cold

hard

unforgiving

unmailable earth below.

the beautiful ocean depths of her

crystalized

the warmth of her shattered

into a billion particulate prisms

to guild the lily

of winters pale, fragile ego

Those broken depths of her coated everything

until she arose ethereal

damp,

and alone.

The earth rejoiced in her puddling fogginess,

affirmed in his self-righteousness.

Cold

bitter

she retreated back to her walls,

an echo of the fire she thought she had been.

Once made frost by the cold of the world

she was nevermore

the same