This Cold Queen

Do you see me when you look up at the sequins,
Embroidered delicately into the Windsor Blue
Crimplene that drapes in steep, glossy rags
from the raging heavens?
Do you see the face that I see,
Shrowded beneath the soft'ning clouds?
I doubt you do.

Do your feeble whimpers of loneliness wake you
From Wintry, undefined illuminations of sleep
As you drag your frozen limbs into
The spotlight of conscious.
Is mine the smoky smile surging
From the cracked chrysalis of your dream?
I doubt it is.

Do you hear the lull? Echoing; familiar reams
Beating at the snares and timpanis above your lobes;
Thrashing in the shallows of silence,
Stirring the calm of thought.
Does my song trick your defense?
Or beckon your guards from their duty?
I doubt it does.

Does the mem'ry of my presence trouble you now
That it no longer rings true. They only intertwine:
Its ghostly talons; your sturdy bones -
Each tainting the other.
Does that spectre mirror me?
A portrait of threat'ning ancestry?

I doubt it resembles this cold Queen -
A hand you plagued with a pipe-dream.