A BLADE SLIDES...

There is a thump on the stairs, a whimper at the door. A blade slides across the wall, splintering the silence with waves of amber and speech. There is red everywhere from daylight to dusk, from the depths of the moon to cosmos light. There are breaths of ice, breaths that strike distance and footfalls, breaths that falter and fail. These are the tiny moments, the slices of life detailed for deliverance. These are songs sung in strange harmony by choirs of one voice, a crimson chorus. When statements are made and smiles are swept away, when curtains are drawn and beds are made, when meals are cooked and ankles are broken, that blade still slides across the wall, still splinters the silence with rage and intent. Ghosts walk the stairs, they tap at doors and trail dead grey hands across faces. There are no smiles, there is no laughter. The house sits in a pool of blood, congealed like tongues of gossip. Blood swaggers and swathes, it vibrates in the ether. Doesn't matter where you sit, where you stand. Doesn't matter how you scoff and how you scorn, that old blade just keeps sliding across that wall.