And so man
within his story,
with all his guts
and gluttoned glory,
failed to reach the heavens  
with his flying ships
and roaring weapons,
looking upwards, 
always upwards, 
never sideways,
never backwards,
never wondering 
how he stood
with his feet
in the burning wood,
on this one time fertile Earth
once filled with hope,
once filled with worth.

And the gods
laughed on high
from their positions
around the sky,
from their comets
in the clouds
encircling a world
now laid in shrouds 
and its curious little creatures 
with hungry hands
and augmented features,  
clambering and clawing
over cadavers, though always falling,
trying to catch a glimpse 
of what was lying
in wait on front of them
but missing the destruction
they were leaving
in their disruption.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Photograph taken from a moving car somewhere near Balmoral, Scotland


3 thoughts on “THE BURNING WOOD

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