my fingers are gone,
chewed and nibbled by the bite of the cold,
and i can see them:
like pictures of people long past their expiration dates,
my eyes are pretending they exist,
but the eyes are all wrong.
appearances are always all wrong.
the wind's threatening a second course,
its breath so close to bare skin.
and i know i can't win,
but i'll sit here for hours
to wait for the show.
sitting on a platter,
i've been frozen alive.
complete with bolstering preservatives
of false truth and true lies
to keep me looking more
appetizing than my deceiving shell.
the cold
the burn
the feeling
proves to a reluctant mind
that the neurons still fire,
the thoughts still form,
and i still have a chance
to end this wild dance
and stop skirting danger to and fro,
laughing all along.
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