Poem by Mark I Rasskazov, Editor in Chief.
My soul breaks like a storm against the rocky shore.
I will erode the sandy softness of the lie;
I uncover the jagged heart of an evil:
Brokenness stabbing heaven like a broken blade.
I am the cliff face; those who ride the high plateau
Will swiftly plunge to a raging river below.
If God will not grant you wings of merciful grace,
You belong to the wrath I spew among the stones.
Your weakness – your dross feeds my tireless, flaming ire.
My salivating twenty-three black, jagged teeth:
They lie in wait for you to trip, stumble, fall down.
The weak, they surround me; I will imbibe blood today.