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
