If in some smothering dreams you too could paceBehind the wagon that we flung him in,And watch the w

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocend tongues,-
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
{ Wilfred Owen - Oct.1917- Mar.1918 }

Did somebody ordered some angst? :D
Till Queendom Come content, fast forward to allegedly the worst time ever to move for a job experience in France. Pose study, played with some acrylic, discovered that this paper really doesn’t get along with washi tape, shaded in digital.