Meet Jack.

His fingers made of icicles,
His face an icy floe,
His nose a plane of crystal glass,
On which no smiles show.

His chest fashioned from flakes of snow,
His eyes, dark flints of steel,
His legs so long and dexterous,
With nothing to reveal.

His chest an empty cavern deep,
No heart was ever there,
Instead a storm brews constantly,
Chaos without a care.

His lungs are simply hunks of snow,
Collected from a mount,
And of the splinters in his flesh?
Of ice, we have lost count.

His feet made up of pain and hurt,
His hair? Sharp spikes of ice;
If there's something Jack Frost really isn't:
It's definitely nice.