The sky shrills with peril and gathers in a chasm of continuance...
yet its groaning is no worse than our own mind-forged human cries. The winds of a tornado does not live nor die and it does not go go gentle into the night, It curls around us, throwing our lives in turmoil and disarray. It is the tool of the unliving, Perhaps like the devil, it too, considers... Sign in to see full entry.