Winter’s Branches

The white wall with the silhouette of winter’s branches moved by the wind, cast with red light shadows and moon’s glow. The television, the phone, rumblings about Nigeria, Mali and Syria. Regional powers struggling over land-locked capitals, powder-keg explosion, boom goes the dynamite. Winter’s branches aren’t dead they only wait for the spring, when the ground thaws and the Earth begins yielding to life again. Geopolitics is no different, against the center, new relics that have replaced old relics, walls razed and rebuilt, while names and faces change the overall aim remains the same, that of acquisition. Only the leaves are shed, winter’s branches remain the same. A life experiences renewal, mentally recharging or “fillin’ the well up”, so does the body, adapting for survival, but what does it mean when weapons more powerful than ever before are being used in modern war zones. Autonomous dealers of death that make no distinction. The white wall in pale red light, winter’s branches.


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