Sunday, 25 June 2017


When will this war be over?

When will I sleep again?

When will I not wake nervous and edgy?

When will the silence not be filled with a fear of what is to come?

What will come, out of the unknown?

Out of the unknown, silent and sudden, bringing fire and wrath and sending what is ordered into chaos.

The floor beneath my feet could be pulled away, the ceiling could come crashing down

No warnings, no meaning.

Each hour of survival is a relief, each tick of the clock is another moment, pregnant with possibility. Each fraction of time may be the moment when the searing heat turns my fragile world to dust.

Limbs bent and shattered, grey flesh moulders in the heat. A fallen window frame still with curtains and broken water pipes gushing. A little gurgling stream from a pile of destruction.

No meaning, no sense.

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