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

 

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