Cold War

A map, a fractured globe, lines drawn in ice, whispers of dread. Two titans, shadows stretching across continents, a silent scream in the static of radio waves, the hum of unseen missiles, a lullaby of fear. Duck and cover, a child's fragile shield, against the sun turned to ash, the mushroom cloud, a blooming nightmare. Berlin's wall, a scar on the soul of a city, families torn, whispers across barbed wire, a concrete testament to a frozen rage. The space race, a desperate reach for the stars, a competition for dominance, a celestial chess game, while the earth below trembled in the balance. Propaganda's siren song, a chorus of lies, distrust sown like radioactive seeds, a harvest of paranoia, a winter without thaw. The red phone, a fragile thread of hope, a desperate plea for sanity in a world gone mad, the weight of the world, a trembling finger on a button. What ghosts remain, in the rusted silos, in the faded maps, in the memories of those who lived, under the shadow of a silent war? Did we avert destruction, or merely postpone it? And what cold whispers still linger, in the corners of our hearts, a chilling reminder of a world on the brink? ©bfa032625