The sun rose, carrying the burn
over the previous night’s black
stare. The sea took several
breaths as the land receded
and sank into bloodthirsty
depths, spitting out sideways
lapping water from spinning
whirlpools underneath. The clock
continued its rhythm as arguments
intensified, never reaching the
periods of their sentences, while
darkness descended with a vengeance
once again, drowning trembling
trees, wildlife, and villagers; even
those who believed in magick,
and had left spiritual offerings
to the gods.

The climate summons every
last bit of power as it changes
and shifts to opposite sides
in the celestial order of things,
while man watches silently
the painted, cursed, and
arbitrary divide of a fleeting
geopolitical structure as
it drowns brutally, pointless,
into the inevitability of nothingness;
into an agonizing death.

Theresa C. Gaynord likes to write about matters of self-inflection and personal experiences, of an out-of body, out-of-mind state, as well as subjects of an idyllic, pagan nature and the occult. She writes horror, as well as concrete gritty and realistic dramas. Theresa is said to be a witch and a poet, (within the horror writing community) and she has been published in a number of magazines throughout the years. Read other articles by Theresa C..