It starts with a scream, then a gasp and a wheeze, 

A tightening death grip, a relentless cold squeeze,

Leering unblinking as startled eyes fade,

The sharp scrape of metal as you unsheath the blade.

It starts with a stream then a slow steady drip, 

As you skin the limp corpse from shoulder to hip,

Cool glinting knife slicing sinew and flesh,

Methodically moving while all is still fresh,

In homage to your victim, your quarry, your kill, 

You will not waste a mouthful and devour your kill,

They will not have perished in vain in the least, 

For the first kill of winter is the start of the feast, 

It ends with a triumph in blood with a price,

The honour of dying in pure sacrifice.