February Wind
by Marcus Twyman
I feel each cut as if it were the most sensual touch of a lover,
My eyes strive to focus through a slowly encroaching cloudiness,
The mud oozes around my cold, mutilated body,
My mind is searching for a way to put this wrong to right,
My body is twitching with an unconscious struggle to survive,
But death's power is too strong to fend off,
The cold has taken refuge in the marrow of my bones,
And the creatures of the woods have begun investigating my corpse-like body,
The only thing I am still able to acknowledge is the cold February wind,
Each year as I return to this spot for my eternal death, the wind is the only thing I am able to remember with clarity,
As the blood begins to slow its descent into the frozen, rock-like ground I feel the last pitiful beats of my failing heart,
For 20 years I have died on this night....maybe next year will be different.
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