This wind

It cuts me through,
Square to the bone,
I want to turn,
Find my way home.
It bleeds the breath,
Right out of me,
It stings my eyes,
I cannot see.
The chances of,
My fingers glowing,
A vibrant blue,
Forever growing.
I have an,
Overwhelming feeling,
That this mere breeze is
Unappealing.
It cuts you see,
Right through my coat,
I’m colder than
A mountain goat,
Without his hair,
Upon a peak.
I feel exposed,
I cannot speak.
This wind is battering,
At my back,
I wish I’d worn,
My anorak.
Almost there,
My door I see,
Soon in my house,
And warm I’ll be.

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