zionengine
This is for the moments when we aren't numb and distracted. Layers of sad chords fade in from before we were here and will echo far past our own lives. The mood closely resembles Flowers for Bodysnatchers' "Babi Yar".
Favorite track: Taken To The Massacre Site By Hamas Terrorists.
Scott Lawlor
What expectation could one have when listening to an album about war? would you imagine you'd hear the cries of the vidtims, gunfire or mortor shells? not in this case. WOA turns all this on its head with a heartfelt emotive glimpse from directly within his psyche to bring you these tragic events from a place of personal and profound pain.
SKULL FACE
I'm still in utter shock how human beings can kill each other over thoughts. When we war we are only committing thought-genocide. Since MY thoughts are more valid than YOUR thoughts I have to kill you so your inferior thoughts no longer exists. So let’s kill everyone who doesn’t have MY same thought and the world will be a better place for human-kind. Sound correct?
As the world's heart beats in rage, I sit in silent revolt. My walls shield me from the cries outside, yet the anguish from within pervades all. Must the canvas of life be painted with such dark hues? The city sounds have changed. No longer do children laugh, nor lovers whisper secrets. Now, all I hear is the echoing wails of despair and distant thuds of pain. Solitude has been my muse, but today it feels like a cage. My thoughts wander to those I once knew, wondering if they still walk this earth or have become whispers in the wind. Tonight, the moon seems indifferent. It shines as bright as ever, a silent witness to our chaos. Perhaps, in its luminous glow, I’ll find solace.
(2)
I found an old photograph. Moments from a time when smiles were genuine, and eyes spoke of dreams. How fleeting is life's respite from suffering. The ink of my pen flows, but the words seem futile. What verse can capture the depth of this human folly? Yet, I write, for in words I find a fragile anchor. Each morning I wake, hoping to hear the familiar sounds of life. Instead, a deafening silence greets me, reminding me of the chasm between yesterday and today. I hear nature's lament for the world we've lost.
(3)
I dreamt of a field of flowers, a world untouched by sorrow. But as dawn broke, reality reasserted itself, and the dream faded like mist before the sun. Books have been my escape. Each page transports me to a realm untouched by the horrors outside. In their stories, I find a bittersweet reprieve. Yet, the walls seem to close in. Each day blurs into the next, a continuous loop of solitude and despair. I yearn for a touch, a voice, a sign that I am not alone. The mirror reflects a face I scarcely recognize. War has aged not just the world, but souls too. Yet, in my eyes, I see a spark – the undying flame of resistance.
(4)
I penned a letter to no one in particular. A plea for sanity, a cry for peace. Maybe someday, someone will read it and remember the cost of our follies. There's a serenity in surrendering to the unknown. Not knowing if tomorrow will come, I cherish today, embracing each moment as if it's my last. The walls bear silent witness to my journey. Each scribble, each tear stain, a testament to a soul seeking meaning amidst chaos.
(5)
I ventured outside today. The world is a mosaic of destruction and rebirth. Amidst the ruins, a flower blooms, defiant and beautiful. Perhaps there's hope yet. As I close this diary, I realize that even in solitude and despair, the human spirit remains unbroken. War may rage outside, but within, the poet's heart still dreams of a world at peace. Today, I realized that my poetry is not just words on a page. It is a reflection of my existence, a chronicle of my journey through this chaotic world. In the face of war, of loneliness and despair, my poetry is my solace, my companion through the darkest of times. And perhaps, in the end, that is all any of us can hope for.
(6)
Silence. For the first time in weeks, there is silence. No gunshots, no explosions. Just the gentle hum of the world, continuing on despite the chaos. In this quiet, I find a moment of peace, a fleeting sense of clarity. Perhaps there is hope yet. I received a letter from my fellow poet today. Her words were a balm to my weary soul, a reminder that I am not alone in this experience. Together, through our poetry, we find solace, a shared understanding of the existential struggle we face. This is of particular importance to me as the isolation is taking its toll. I feel disconnected, adrift in a sea of my own thoughts. My poetry is my only anchor, the one thing keeping me grounded in this tumultuous world.
(7)
The sounds of war are closer today, a reminder of the fragility of life. I find myself clinging to my poetry, to the words that have been my constant companion through this ordeal. In them, I find strength, a resilience I never knew I had. I sat by the window today, watching as the world passed me by. I felt like a ghost, unseen and unheard. Is this what it means to be truly alone, to be lost in a sea of isolation?
(8)
The news of the war is grim. It seems there is no end in sight, no light at the end of the tunnel. In the face of such devastation, what can one lone poet do? Are my words futile, or can they serve as a beacon of hope in these dark times? I wrote a poem today. It spoke of love and loss, of war and peace. But as I read it back to myself, I wondered, does it truly capture the essence of this experience? Can words ever truly convey the depth of human suffering, the complexity of our emotions?
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