before hell

i’ve been shot ,
i’ve not had the four leaf clover of a bullet through my head .
instead i’d been blasted ,
right a top my shoulder blade ,
wounded .
slowly deceasing to the pits of hell ,
like i has been stricken by a blazing vermilion arrow ,
an invitation attached to it ,
seeping into my skin ,
slowly seizing what bit of earth i had left in me .
i’m half pain bound and struck ,
while the other half is carted away ,
leaving nothing but a scarlett shallow ,
and a half empty soul .