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
Copyright ©
Bernard F. Asuncion
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