Sanguine Bruises But Falling

Sanguine bruises, but falling... golden and falling.

A piece of prose by my fellow imagination-adventurer Maggie is here to accompany my photograph, take it as you will. She makes me love adjectives.

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Advent of a sanguine dream

Golden and falling. The sun admits her gallant defeat. Retires her pretty looks, removes her gracious parts. Across her head, sends the eyes of an exploited heart. Reaching titian fingertips gloved in eternity grasp as they slip, contain the dissipated envy. Hold vanishing hope.

An end, a beginning. The slow shift from knowledge to faith gloried in the aureate streaks. Inflaming the truth as it kisses goodbye, beckons the shadows. Smoke in a creeping depth. Fury and frost entice the cold with a warming countenance. Livid in the blackness, the world’s bruise ignites in fleeting florid security.

Listless and angry, the sun’s successor stalks the auburn ecstasy. Paces through heating rays. Molding and forming. Creeps up, stares at the passage and sighs. Flares her nostrils at the encased princess who waves at her fawning audience. Fanfaronade. Waits for her own commanding praise. Alive and bright in the blazing darkness.

The earth begins its slow transition from certainty to mystery, drawn in a pale moonlight. Flippant colors infuse the trembling distance. Golden and falling. Death’s paramour vamps the carmine hopes. Holds in her wasting heart. Gives a greedy smile that belies her avaricious nature. Sets out to endure the waiting distance.

Begins the ending, ends the beginning, and lazily reaches beyond the memories for a fating glimpse at the molten sunlight. The sun sings a biting farewell. Caresses the wrinkling eyes of time, melts the fiery depths of old age. And watching. Hugs the rising moon, ostensibly gifting her with reigning power over the orange starlight. Waves, gives a dance and pouts.

Eloquent screams inflame the night with the slipping sun’s transient hues of hope. Eternity’s white slave greets the night’s deep set, unrolls her fixéd boots. Shudders in a freezing grasp. Sends her red call undulating through the sky. Lives a half life; awaights the return of the stretching fire. Golden and falling.

Maggie Culhane
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and of course I have to add my bit... well, Rose is actually painted orange, here. its not photoshop. and her eyes really are that color (they are oma's eyes) and yes, I painted that backdrop. I wish the backdrop was a little different where it meets the shoulder, but thats alright. I like how one looks at her face and then up right to the backdrop, and back to the face again.

I'll think of something really interesting to say here after i write the 3 papers I procrastinated and did not do the last 2 weeks.