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10/03/2019 / Harry Browne

WE LIVE IN A HOUSE by Niamh Ryan

We live in a house where people come to die.
Why do they not flick the match and let us all burn.
It’s not just poverty,
It’s poverty and abuse,
abuse of the souls a clutch of corpses too.
Dead. Dead too long to even know they are in fact dead.
The timbre, the limb is in vain.
The crease of skin might as well tear.
The natural sound of rain rip off the bandages
to expose the guts behind the curtained floor
There is no more.
Even the spider has second thoughts
scuttling across the cold tiled floor
stepping over the bodies that lie in the moor
the morning inches away from the light
that seeps porously through the floor
The losing score.

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