Thunder announces the coming storm, its reverberations ignored.
Twisted is the child of twisted parents.
Twisted is the land of twisted people.
Twisted is the world.
Light reflects on leaves soon to lie brown, giving way to fall and the cold gray skies to come.
I actually love fall, but winter, not so much. And for those who lived before, it was a time of preparation, survival, and death.
Objects hover over green depths as water reflects their shape amid a symphony of light.
Intermission ice cream marches as windows fog. The show starts in seven minutes, but a lifetime of memories has just begun.
White wings hang by the gate as self-absorbed souls fall away.
Humankind cries out, solutions are offered but go unheeded; even angels need a break.
Puppet master strings entangle the world as a chaotic symphony exposes evil hands, the audience refusing to look up.
Preachers preach, dictators kill, and people watch like good little sheep.
Some follow the dictator, while others the preacher, all too afraid to stand.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, wings flutter past your cheek as a breeze.