Evening Bloodshed

It was blood-red; it should have been a pretty sunset but it had a too open, too inflamed eye It should have been spectacular, yet that blood, it ran downwards, it dripped into our own open eyes. As we looked, as we saw what the blood saw; that silent voice of our hidden blood cried out like one wounded animal. In a way it may have been beautiful, the way death can be when left alone to be unseen but that blood kept pouring and the sky kept smearing its blood over all the wounded animals.