By Lydia Eve Grant
We are shadows on the wall, burnt crisp as brutal sunsets blaze against the dying bursts of a million lights.
Nuclear storms melt our frames, black soot cloaks jagged ground.
Children gulp in toxins, drink in evil, tiny eyes go wide.
Aware. Alert.
Mothers scream and reach, desperate in their urge to protect as skin is torn, blood is boiled.
Hidden behind Saints we beg
forgiveness, seeking solace for sins never conducted.
This is the end.
Victory.
Lydia Eve Grant is 19 and a first year student of English and Linguistics. As a valuable member of the editing team, her talents lie with speech and syntax management. She writes in her free time.
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