For where you set your foot, the world spins there,
as icecaps form on topsoil, tundra-tight.
Your polar throne mocks warmth with cold despair,
as former trust prepares for half-year's night
and digs itself a grave; yet, tell me why
your kingdom must be crowned in wintry death,
when you, the sovereign queen of earth and sky,
could will the poles as mild as baby's breath?
Perhaps you've come to need a loneliness
your ivory tower's height could not insure.
You've traded lofty views for emptiness,
and frost has burned what it could not secure.

I'll bend my grappling hook and form a pick
to find the spark within your icy quick.