Rows upon rows of carmine conscripts, the army of an age old seducer first fills my waking hours and then my dreams.
The knife bites the scarlet tide and life’s blood drips a clear sweet nectar. Discarded hearts and strips of flesh pile high to rot under a merciless sun. Warmonger wasps and poor country mice loot the corpses, emptying the pockets of every last scrap. Ravaging even the bruised and discarded hearts the scavengers make a macabre feast and devour the auburns jewels within.