The dance is a poem of which each movement is a word. - Mata Hari

Crimson sky


28 nominations

The sky at dusk is drenched in red of innocents that died. The spoils of war is hard to miss when reflected in the sky. “How did it come to this?” I ask, while I sit and wonder why. “Why do we maim and kill our kind?” “Has compassion really died?” We will be the end of us. We will destroy ourselves in time. Karma wil have her way with us, and we’ll pay for all our crimes. With tints of fear I realize: “The end is fucking nigh.” I sit and ponder all these things beneath a crimson sky.



© gummo
2005-10-28

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