A Blooded Virgin Night

Brighter than a fall bonfire, but with the chill of ice, the Winter sun haloes the gray and barren woodland, throbbing, almost hesitant, with a fluorescent pulse, brazen in its unrelenting descent, it clings-- to the horizon. How it hurt my eyes. Thin skinned, the lids tinge orange, the white of sol merging: trunks, boughs, branches, twigs, welt the dusk-- rouging the line between, blooding the virgin night. Pricked, the brain pulses in tune, unable to look away. How it hurt my mind. Splayed fingers block, the sharpened spears of screaming fright. The Winter sun, indexed, palmed, scratches, the face of I. Within a lightless room a pall hides blue veins, near comatose, brazen: the light, the light-- I sigh, until shades and stars arrive. How life and death both hurt. art by JulieG350 First Published by Dual Coast Magazine Issue 1 - 2014