The Line
Bridget C.

She lay still in the long grass
growing cold and clammy
in the breezy night air,
her exposed flesh shimmering
in the milky starlight,
covered in a diamond-like dew.
Although the rusty
decrepit leaves rustled,
scratching and clawing at each other,
and the last of the year's crickets
chirped loudly in her ear,
she did not stir.
Her grey eyes, matching
a smattering of distant clouds,
were unfocused, gazing upwards,
seeming to take in the dark silhouettes
cast in the distance,
the shadows from a crescent moon.
Her hair radiated about her head,
a raven's blue-black
refracting and shattering
the moon's soft, diluted glow,
in the tangled tresses,
tossed about by the turbulent wind.
Her body, so pristine and silent
was marred by one imperfection:
the livid red line, still glistening
and burning with an internal fire
across her otherwise pale throat,
spilling precious ruby drops to the ground.