Nightmarred

 
Last night, the twists of black bled a new instigation of dismay… The dark kitten, with a void punctured acerbic; hard and skeletal, is submerged in a steaming pool of white wine. A woman approaches, and observes to an out-drawn soul, “Oh child, it doesn’t hurt.” Then her lips moisten, as she turns the void with swift pounds of her razor-knuckled fist. The dark kitten hastens; thrashes, but remains silent to the void. Ever deep; the wound deepens. A sustained blood flow, unclotting. Then the girl, crying, appears; she implores the woman to heed, but the hag persists. Mourns of the child echo the pulsing void. When the initiation peels taut, the dark kitten cradles her girl (in silhouetted disdain), but the pain remains. And I awake, to the smothering darkness, of fate…