By Jordan O’Boyle
My home, here now and there then.
Images of there now, ash and bomb ruin haunting like Babel nightmares. The repetitive image, five seconds for the hours I ate there, before now. I’ve forgotten the owner’s name, the main courses were glorious, yet his bricks are now crumble, just desserts for the inequity of their order.
The million that never contemplated leaving now in hovels of disgrace through the course of disaster; it was your own fault, why didn’t you fight back. I would.
I believed we were a part of this world.