The First of Hell

Lying in the depths of a place so cold.
Somewhere I'm resting, somewhere I've escaped.
Distantly, I feel a touch; then another.
They've reached me; I've succumbed.
Warmth envelops as I'm pulled down deeper.
Something welcomed at first, turns,
And touch whereupon touch, I feel needle pricks.
Blood is escaping from these places, and
Tepidness of this flesh that seeps red, starts to burn.
Oranges, reds and yellows come to view,
As the vision I had lost when I closed my eyes
That last time... returns.