The Death of PeaceI have a Monster.
I suspect it rages in the heart of every man. I have taken mine and locked it deep, chained in the darkest of places in the hope that it does not tread on a spirit that once desired to be only gentle, caring and giving; loving. But as the years go by, and the scars mount, the monster is a'stirring, the chains have become loose in their age.
The weary heart is a poor guardian.
And thus the monster gathers the weak chains and slinks out, seeking the surface.
The guardian will love, love, love. The monster is a fury.