Maybe I will again.
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