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Poem

Her tears are real, clearly champagne and crystal, 
  delicately micro frozen upon her quiescent face; 
transparent and invisible, deceives the naked eye, 
  there for fleeting instants, gone without a trace. 
Although their authenticity may well provoke debate 
  it does not mean they are not truly there; 
and though her circuits may be closed in insulating snow 
  it does not mean she cannot truly care. 
What stands between her frailty and the fierce Siberian winds 
  that prowl perimeters of her heart and freeze 
with the coldest chill of salt mines and the emptiest terrain 
  that brings armies of the hardest to their knees? 
The promised blast from a slaughterhouse door upon her naked back 
  congeals the blood within her veins until it will not run; 
emotions thus solidify to guard against the hurt 
  whilst she begs the thaw of body heat, the passion of the sun. 
Yet all the fear and wonder of Winter's destitute domain, 
  wraps her up in solitude and sets her soul apart; 
and she prays for someone with the patient, warmest scalpel kiss 
  to shear away the frost from her aching, ice-cream heart.

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