So many facets, falling in coruscating drops of kaleidoscopic flames. Each of those seems as real as us, standing on this precipice of chaos, yet all gossamer threads, sparkling with silvery silkiness, lead to the darker truth beneath. We are not good men, we have never been. We were made of things far less noble than the mask of piety we present to the world.
We are destroyers of worlds. Listen to the screams of those condemned by our wrath. Listen to their death rattles as smoke and fire and blood sear their lungs and drown their cries. We might have been good once, but all of that is washed in the tide of blood on our hands.
We walk the lightless path, searching for the monsters in the night, heedless of the fact that we ourselves are the monsters we are looking for so fervently. No wonder the things we cherish become ashes in the wind, and the people we love run from the darkness inside, forever beyond our reach, without possibility for repentance or redemption.
Why? Why were we consigned to such cruel fate?
Photo by ArtTower