Under The Tin Roof

He was born under a tin roof above which projectiles flew. He was born from anxiety, for you see, the bombs find their way through the sky, dark and blue. The hum was loud, so were the screams. He still remembers, the smell of fear and yellow hue. Between him and safety, space warps, expands, and shakes him to his knees. And now, the only rhythm he hears, is the sound of his weak heartbeats.

Photograph: “Barricade” | Ian Abbott -flikr