I used to write poems

Maybe I will again.


Canada House

It is an imposing, ghost-like thing,

An echo of the tigers’ brief roar.

Dusty windows and dirty floors, the fenced

Off doors to the past


Silent inside, the lights have not lit a room

In years with an ugly industrial glare.

The vault of an old, cold world that never cared to see the fall

Was approaching and the flood waters were encroaching.


It is the grave of the recently passed, naïve world, out-dated now,

A moment out of sync with the times, the silent crimes of

Concrete poured into the field, into corners, squaring off the edges.


The Shrapnel from the boom still whistles by and tears us all apart,

Our ears still ringing from the blast,

In a frequency

We will never hear again.


Niamh ‘Is a bit shit at poetry’ Keoghan



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: