2
It will never be seen. The teething that comes about in strides of tremulant crimson. Thousands of iterations of biting and ripping and soon the animal will be revealed. Less than a whole, that is the feeling of that word that is questioned. Crimson drips from the animal, and with a flash of light forever given into memory. Frozen in the dark heat of the rays, right where it belongs. A dream, one of extreme emotion that circles around in a menacing threat that weaves elaborate scenes of contentment. Reach for it, do not give into the emptiness that rips forward with little regard for the heart. Beating, the organ pulses with new life, fueled by the minor expectation that will never be fulfilled. Undefined, the roar in the ears experiences a sudden shift, and the tone alters in such a way that sadness into anger, into uninformed joy. A brush strokes into white canvas and paints an image of a person, faded away through black. No eyes, for one cannot see what one cannot feel. When the eyes open, he hopes to see in them compassion, for the beating heart of crimson. Hoping that the suffering of the mind will end. Erratic movements and personality turn away in fear of rejection, and on and on and on and on. Unexplainable and unreasonable. The cryptic words upset the eyes unless it is truely interpreted in the eyes. Spiraling down in shades of blue, the rose dies away, the red fades. And soon, all is black.
