Walking a familiar street in a place you once called home.

Yours, but it’s hardly a home anymore.

Puddles of rain became pools of blood; streets became alleys of corpses.

You walk past your neighborhood. Where was everyone?

Escaped, you pray to yourself. Maybe to Poland.

Creeping closer, you realize that’s a lie.

Where was everyone?

Dead. Shot in the head. Set ablaze.

Nothing left to bury.

Burned-out cars with skeletons sit silent.

Drivers lay in ditches, keys in hand.

They never made it home.

Russian teens patrol the streets, looting stores, murdering civilians.

There is no “elite Russian army” here.

No soldiers, just marauders and bastards.

Crossfire echoes instead of traffic and chatter.

Stores in ruins, ravaged, stripped of humanity.

A city, a country, stripped of humanity.

Red blood rains down.

When will the red of Russia rain, not reign?