The last house
that was not a home
but a moan in an unlit night,
White walls
polished mouse skulls
basement a swamp
where the children once played –
– what use pants without pockets?
– what use muted earth?
– what use populism of lies?
The last house
that was never a home
but a groan from settling right,
Cracked foundation…
are they out of their minds
…they’ll never get what they’re asking
Reblogged this on O LADO ESCURO DA LUA.
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A marvelous achievement of poetry. You my friend are the best. 🙂 Miss you Jason. Glad your back. 🙂
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Thanks for reading, man! Hope you had a nice November.
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You welcome Jason. My November was great. Moving on forward to next year. 🙂
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