A flare, like a blinding flashlight, shines at the fore

Puddles of deep crimson crawl laterally — as if that bright dot was the wound

At the periphery, all the hues of bruising — indigo to a shade of purple indistinguishable from black

The colors tuned up by the heat of inflammation felt — but not seen — in the cold view of one beaten to the edge of life

As well as, by the harsh lighting — blues and reds dancing from lightbars and wig-wags of police cars and fire trucks — shining over the carnage.

Humans are believing machines.
If one can imagine a thing,
one can make it one’s reality.

Under an infinite night sky,
with nothing to grasp in one’s hands,
the mind still seizes its fair share.

But the test of whether one can
grab onto something new is whether
you can let go of the old.