My face is ghostly pale in the mirror as I slash frosty pink blush across my cheeks.
Those cannot be my sunken eyes peering back at me.
The formal white gown hangs limply from my boney frame.
I am wearing a white fur for all it cold.
The ghost in my mirror looks back at me unblinking.
It has blonde whispy hair, lifeless and pale, that strays by its face.
I am wearing a cross, and it is not the small pendant hanging from my neck,
That is an egyptian eye - all knowing.
I keep it close so that I might soak up some of its wisdom.
I am a never ending stretch of bleached white,
As is my land laid out before me.
My stalagmite castle towers above and I stand at the peak.
The clock reflected in my mirror has stopped in time - but I own no timepieces.
I am looking back at me numbly,
My lips are so pale they almost fade away into my face.
I look at me, I am supposed to be beautiful.
I cannot bring myself to say I am me.
I am reaching a frail hand to my head,
And I am cutting my fingers on a crown of icy shards.
