Quentin wakes in his ivory tower
and huffs a labored sigh.
The steam that rises from his lips
The sun settles viscous: syrup
on his wooden limbs,
but he is always cold, and immune to the joys
so he surrenders.
Quentin holds a golden candlestick
and lets the wax drip over his fingers.
He is always cold,
but the burn feels nice on his
wary and thin,
for the snow to settle in.