War Time Writings

Blitz

The orange, yellow horizon intensifies the beauty;
A false sense of decadence increases over our town
That is waiting to be destroyed.
The blitzes come every hour,
My head hurts from the deafening sound
Of bakers, industrialists and mothers screaming,
'Help!'
But we're left hopeless in a shower of bombs,
Bullets and shrapnel fall from the sky.
Hoping it is Santa but it's not.
It's the enemy. Our enemy.
Humanities enemy. Humans.