Claret Mire

Randomly running through some vivid night, the stars will burn linear in confusion and pain. Thick the clawed branches of trees vicious as those frenemies having snuck up in front of you – those sheep in wolves clothing. Mild tempered curs, static; and everyone knows static equivocates death. Thorns and thistles, scattered and strewn over wild grounds amidst the scratching vegetation pierce and shred; leaving sanguine trail. Blood burned away long ago and those vessels fill with the acid that drives. Pumping, life’s drum beats a broken song. And the seas those windows leak could drown worlds in wake. Ripping through foliage, which grabs and clutches silken tresses abandoned in the urgency of need to be away.

Forest gives way to ruins, demolished and torched. Thoughtlessly carried on appendages bruised and numb with frost, moved by wires pulsing electricity from a generator on automatic pilot. Through arching doorways into shadowed realms, over smooth granite dark as void roped with argentate slices – silver veins in the ebon coat of dying wolves. Echoing slaps ring throughout chorused with gentle snapping, tattered garb mockingly white.

Stumble as earth gives way, like those reeds when the wind is high from the Hunt. The crimson stain climbing those pale threads perplexes, pushing on to wade through this claret mire. Plunging deeper as the ruby morass coats, surging up gullet, covering shoulders and clinging to mane. Some rubicund sand trap, dragging down.

How many can boast of drowning within blood marshes?