The Mariner’s Lament Upon the Frost-Kissed Spire

Ten thousand waves had claimed his sunken crew,
When Leviathan’s maw the schooner slew,
Yet he, sole survivor of the brine’s dark jest,
Was cast ashore where snowflakes form their nest.
There, in the aurora’s ever-dancing light,
A maiden’s voice had haunted through the night—
A melody that thawed his heart of stone,
A siren’s breath through ice-locked valleys blown.

“O wanderer,” she sang, “whose soul bears winter’s brand,
Come trace the path where mortal feet may stand,
Beyond the crags where phantoms carve their runes,
To where the stars descend in silver plumes.”
Her eyes, twin pools where midnight’s secrets sleep,
Through visions deep his ravaged mind did sweep,
Till love, a fever, burned his reason frail,
And bade him conquer every jagged trail.

Through ravines choked with whispers of the dead,
Where avalanches roar like vows unsaid,
He carved his oath in hoarfrost on the stones,
While spectral winds dissected marrow’s bones.
Three crimson moons waxed full above his quest,
Their light etched shadows on his frozen breast,
Yet still the phantom’s call, both knife and balm,
Drew blood and solace from his fevered palm.

At last, within a cirque of splintered glass,
Where time itself congeals to frozen mass,
He found her—wraith of snow and starlight spun—
Her form a mirage ‘gainst the midnight sun.
“Why court the kiss of shadows?” wept the air,
As glaciers groaned their warnings of despair,
Yet in her gaze, the tempests found their calm—
Her hand, a ghostly bloom, met his warm palm.

“Long have I watched thy pilgrimage of pain,”
She breathed, her voice a blizzard’s sweet refrain,
“But flesh and frost were never meant to wed—
Thy heartbeat’s fire would melt my mortal thread.”
He vowed to shed his veins’ betraying heat,
To let the mountain’s chill his pulse defeat,
If she might linger for one stolen hour
Before the frost reclaimed its bridal bower.

Beneath the arch where polar heavens weep,
They danced—his breath a cloud, her steps a sweep
Of zephyrs weaving through diamond dust,
Till dawn’s first blade betrayed their brittle trust.
Her fingers, fading as the east grew bright,
Left frostbite roses where they clasped him tight.
“Return,” she murmured, “when the north winds wail—
In winter’s womb, our epilogue may pale.”

Madness became his compass, fierce and true,
He built an altar of eternal blue—
A glacier’s heart, where memories congeal
And lovers’ promises to ice anneal.
Each winter’s night, he scaled the sheerest face,
To glimpse her form in every snowflake’s lace,
While avalanches, like Fate’s crushing hand,
Erased his footsteps from the shifting land.

Decades, like wolves, devoured youth’s remains,
His beard now crystal-flecked with winter’s chains,
Till on a night when stars dripped liquid steel,
He clasped her fully—or so madness’ zeal
Decreed. The mountain, weary of his creed,
Unwove the dream as frost unthreads a seed.
Her laughter merged with blizzard’s wild lament
As hypothermia’s nectar dulled dissent.

Now climbers tell of bones embraced by snow,
Two figures where the northern violets grow—
A man’s remains, his arms outstretched in vain,
Enclosing naught but frost’s exquisite stain.
The wind through passes hums their requiem low,
A hymn for those whom cruel illusions know,
While high above, in mocking starlight clear,
The aurora dances—lovers’ chandelier.