Incarnadine spills from innocent wounds paving highways of a grief stricken hell, slowly altering Nature’s color palette to adjust to the grim gray of gravestones untouched by time.
Earsplitting salvo of rockets crashing into concrete, drowning out the sound of prayers rising from the desperate lips of the world still clinging onto the belief that there ought to be more to life than death..
Who do we surrender to?
The steps that lead to heaven’s portal are used as firewood to keep the corrupt warm while the people suffer.
We watch on as the tsunami of violence ensues: prayer beads stilled mid-count, mouths agape we stare at this war and think that we are safe because it is not our war.
We are all at war; every war is your war, is mine…