Innocence.

All bleeding stops.
The brain is self-destructive.
Cards held close, very close for me to bat and stumble at the outside.
Crashing headlong as usual.
Time to check my answers, I made an ok decision and didn't suffer the usual consequences.
The usual inferences fail me now,
Highly suspect, little winged thing.

I remember the illustration of Pandora's Box from my childhood,
Hope, it had wings.
All bleeding stops, one way or another.
The brain, once injured, is programmed to continue to destroy itself until there is nothing left to think about.
Pestilence had fangs.
Sorrow was all beak, like the Mome Raths.
Hate ran the other way, black and stringy like a clot hung from a sheet.
But only Hope flew up.
She and I, paired in our desperate fluttering go anywhere we're welcome.

Somewhere beautiful.