"A church that crowned itself in holiness by crucifying it's mothers"
This piece invites you to sit with the unease: where ritual has rotted and reverence has turned on the very figures it once claimed to exalt.
The scene mirrors tradition, but distorts it into something honest. Power is present, but hollow. Devotion exists, but it’s cracked. And somewhere in the silence between them, something sacred has been stripped away, intentionally.
There are echoes of wisdom once revered, now absent. A voice that should have shaped the foundation, reduced to a footnote. In its place: performance, control, and history written in ash.
This is not just a dark version of the divine. It’s a confrontation with what was lost when holiness became hierarchy.
Look closely. The truth isn’t hidden; it’s just been buried.
