A child on the father’s lap With fearful eyes searching for answers “Are we ok? Who is this mob, dad?” Choking on his tears, he
My sweet, my lonely heart is skeptic. Each word, each action probed. Ideas scrutinized and questioned “not true” – the heart runs into a default.
They say the eyes are windows to your soul. Your pupils. Oh, they can show Pain, joy, and pleasures. The anger, fear, sadness. The pupils,
I hear the storm; I hear evil sounds. They chase me down in the corridors. The growls and rage are on the ground. Casted scene