Blood ponds in your feet

When the phone rings in the middle of the night …

The surprise that comes from under the blue. It’s that voice, the past with its fingers protruding out of the receiver. The talons of time, driftwood of destiny, clung to, cobwebs bound into rope. You sit as the blood ponds in your feet.

Death comes with a warning nowadays, you get a precursor to the main event. A pre-show exhibition of the raging grief to come.

Is being drip fed sadness better than a full on punch in the teeth?