Oct 19
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Beauty that kills

Beauty that kills.                                                                             By: Nolan Lane

I'm waiting, 
Sounds fly by as the helicopter soars over the mountain,
The heli drums, like a African drumming group,
The cold wind bites my skin as I step out, 
Feeling the power of winter around me,
Then there's the mountains,
The ones that are waiting there,
For me,
I strap on my skis,
And start carving down the first mountain,
I slip a I slide over some ice, 
Crashing through the woods,
I finally stop myself right before a river,
I start again, slipping through the trees, 
Out into the clearing, at the bottom of the hill, 
Looking for my next victim, I see a hill covered in what looked like powder,
I hopped on the helicopter and flew over the valley,
The hill awaits, prepping its hardest trail,
Wanting me to go, and never come again, 
I scrape down the trail,
Starting to lose control,
I slip, as I hit a chute,
Falling, falling, falling,
Trying to stop, but seeing no way,
I'm sliding as fast, as fast as I can,
Waving my arms, trying to stop,
I see a wall, I hit it hard,
Breaking and puncturing my own lungs,
I lay there, crumpled in a ball,
Hoping I could hold on, to the light of the day,
Hoping I don't die on the beautiful hills,
But I think about my life,
And the opportunities I get,
And how sad it is,
That Mother Nature's rage,
Was aimed on the mountain,
And how I was in line of sight, 
I hear the drumming again, coming from above,
I turn over, trying to stand,
I manage to sit up,
But I instantly regret it,
I see the red all over my lower body,
I black out, never to wake up again.

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