Derivative Melancholy And Primrose Paths

And the way I do it is, 
I imagine myself in their place;

And when I can hear the bombs rain  from somewhere up above in the dead of night, and cower, not knowing where the next will fall,

When I can see the waves which have broken their bounds carry away my neigbours, from my perch on the roof of the now-destroyed house I was still growing up in,

Or I feel on my arms and my cheek, the singeing hairs from the heat of the fire 
that has now come alive and is devouring my home, 

When I can smell the roses,

or taste the peppery spice

all evoked from a still photo,

That’s how I know.


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