Of Heads of Tales

"Where is there a snow colder than my veins?"
She would ask.
And though I've known her
For many years
Her eyes still keep secrets
She whispers that she doesn't see
A world fit to be
For just a King and a Queen
A ruler in all of tyranny.
Mercy, please! We cannot see
The dangers that exist in just being!
What can we do and what can we be
When we are blinded by all mystery?
I'd tell her it was meant to be
In a world much less stale,
In a world with more than heads or tales.
Who are we?
Why are we trapped in symmetry?
Is cold a thing we feel
Or is it us?
Is it a state of being?