A Photographic Series and a Poem

Eons of human suffering roll in tumbling clouds over towering mountains.

Endless pain and turmoil thunder down upon those who cast about false optimism. 

The devil disguises himself as saints,

Wraps his wretched hands around their throats

And squeezes them to death,

Such that the Dark Ages never end.

The world is burning,

And the masses chant the good word into the abyss,

Lying in tongues.

They dance around a fire made in your visage

And consider themselves sacred.

The ignorant are taught their ignorance.

And where are you?

As the cracks form,

As the world collapses in on itself,

A mess of rage and fury,

Of greed and spite,

Where are you?

They tell me I must speak to you.

They tell me I am wayward because I have not. 

Purpose is absent until you grace it with your presence,

Or so they say.

But if you do find me,

We will not talk of purpose,

We will not talk of virtue.

No, if I find you,

We will sit down,

And I will read you this furious threnody.

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