there was ice in her eyes,

colder than a winter storm during june.

the fire was a frosty blue,

fading into a whirlwind of snow too soon.

drowning in the biting cold,

when she would rather burn at a stake of fire.

for at least in the lapping heat,

the forgetting of her lies seems less dire.

and there was a dagger of ice in her hand,

hotter than a flaming match.

sharpened by every scream of the frozen ghosts,

the weapon invoked her chilling wrath.

fighting to overcome the gripping frost,

she dreams of blue fire.

for at least in the flames of a sacrificial execution,

her lies would burn away on the pyre