It was cold.
Death's fingers
Resting on my forehead.
The nail
Scraping, scraping,
Skin scorching
Of pain.
"You want darkness
Or heaven?"
He cackled, losing grip
On the nail
Bludgeoning
For blood.
"Time's a wasting."
The wind stopped blowing a long while ago.
Death composed himself;
Pulled the nail out
'Til the roused red
Spouted out
And the cold resurfaced.
"You ain't scared.
This suicide?"
"Death.
If only you knew,
How much I craved
For this to end."
The frostbite quivered.
Death...
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