Wave crashes embroiling the majesty, the crown atop the heads smashed and melted into their scalps. Interment collapsed in a canister, it smells of wheat and canon oil. The odors overwhelm the ladened hands that cringe of smoldering heat. The hairs burn, as the corpses senge themselves of any sort of magnanimous entrapment. The rulers tap their fingers on the cold hardened steel, splashing their perception onto a world filled with resentment and vile bewilderment. Positioned, the animals snarling awaiting the trivial states of being one with the wilderness. Those ruthless sentinels, envelope those villagers with cold stares in the camps of the matriarchy. Slashing them lifelessly, like a weed in the summer months that hasn’t found its root or grounds in stature.
Contributor- Chris Ballenger