The only thing they're good at
Is running away.
Twisting and turning on a narrow, dirt path.
Weaving past the pale barren trees.
Breathing heavily turns to panting like a dog.
The frigid air suffocating their lungs
Squeezing them like a python
But they cannot stop.
Further and further from warmth
The snow gets deeper, sinking like quick sand.
Their legs are numb and they can't feel their face.
But they're not with you.
They stumble, their legs stuck, and hear a snap.
The sound cuts through the cold, thick silence
Their eyes seem to water, but they can't be sure.
If so then they've frozen, unable to form any tears.
They trudge forward, crawling, their head barely reaching the top of the snow.
Their eyes shut tight, iced over like a rink
They want to call out but their Voice will not let them.
Subconscious too stubborn to let others know.
Reaching forward grasping at empty air,
Their lungs nearing empty,
Tilt their head to the sky.
A word escapes their lips through a puff of white air.
Small, weak, and frail
Sounding like broken glass.
An utterance of help,
Could it be their last?