The Visitor

Thresholds fold. Solid Gold.
Two lungs full of water

I awake inside a chalk triangle, unable to move. Mucous coated. Foetal response. Shouts from the shadows.

Candles flicker, their dim light blinding to eyes so used to blindness.

Tongues of Angels pronounce catastrophic. I am surrounded by visions and memories, echoes of a past and future no longer separated by the razor blade of Now.

A stream of blood makes it's way towards me, a slow roll across wooden floorboards. As it touches the apex of my geometric prison it becomes two, branching out along the white outline.

Choking cough, splutter.
Gasp.
Finally, I exhale.


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