elancharan gunasekaran

democracy is dead: tired minds drift from opinion to opinion but none their own

the sentient sword dreams of a river flowing even when sheathed

what begins as a dull night waves crash and exaggerate the crescent moon enters stage scantily clad in pale light as the coast bursts into a raucous applause

winter’s crow stumbles on an outcrop: realms collide

let wrath and rage shape this soul from feet to brim let the voices of thunder become my own for this world has fallen too far so let the endfires come and cleanse us all

dreams of the divine and winged from marbled skies the gaze of curiosity

warmth a fading memory shadows huddle along cold corridors

falling stars litter the coastline eagerly awaiting the return of humans

cast pain and suffering back into the fleeing fog