Scarlet

Let not the passing moment fly away! Each thought, a bird in jumpy watch of the next assailant of the night, the next shadow on the wall that asks a fantastic service of its captive, sending him to the underworld where ghouls and demons ride on polished bones, where broomsticks bow to witches wanting whispers from the void, taking the last shard of the shattered gemstone plate and eating from its pristine point the meat of the earth, the fruit of death.