There was a battle here

There was a battle here
Above the bunker
I still see it through my periscope, tiny and intense
A pinpoint on the sidewalk like the sun through a lens
Moving with me through time
Moving but not moving
Anchored in the seabed
A boat swinging in the storm, creating wakes like white flowers
Brief blooms obliterated by black water
I go back, I come forward
It’s a cyclical thing
Underground again, watching from a distance
And then, white flowers dying

There was a battle here

Picture Credit – stanbalik

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It’s obvious that when the apocalypse comes, I will be one of the weak people. I will have no spin kicks with which to defend myself. I will have only the magic of my words and my understanding to protect me. I will be meat for the beast. (Unless I can engage him in conversation.) And I am fine with that. If my death at monstrous hands becomes imminent, I hope I can meet it in a lounge chair, sipping on a gin martini.

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