Warsaw’s Ash


The Art of Life

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.

W.B Yeats

Self edited, and taken by My Life As A Photographer

White and storm cloud ash, mingle with the forbidding thunderheads, above.
A remnant of the dead, calling out to the living to be revenged.
Running, we ran from the haughty laughs, of the Dictators ragging fires.
Fleeing, we ran from the cold clicks of their barrels, on our sweaty brows.
Escaping, we ran from from this hellish earth, with one pull of the hangman’s noose.
We didn’t stay, when our comrades body’s cried out from the swirling, pools of blood; for vengeance.
We, all where the Dictators pawns; for him to move as he pleased.
We, all where…

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