Vast, the Valley of Promise.
Narrow the promontory we stand.
To the left and to the right and far into the distance, a harsh, unforgiving span spreads profound with uncompromising daggers stabbed deep in the blood-stained realms.
A frigid, frightful moon injects the slumbering gloom with Death’s blue hue.
Biting winds swirl around, growling like angry, rabid wolves.
Earth grumbles, fraught with heated tensions.
In the Valley of Promise, the impassioned raging Rapids of Accord surge a torrent of icy white caps, eroding the smears of reproach with vicious intent.
Silver mist, a deceptive velvet…
A flower, delicate as the course of eternity, breaks through the crack of reality.
Raven’s Head Stew