Reader Submissions

Well-Known Corners of the People


Philip Greenall

In a ransacked room
A tattered tapestry of life
Lays strewn carelessly
And colours are bled bone-dry
All context has faded

Pictures of happy times
Smashed by the impact
Of impulsive anger, solitude, neglect
Distorted now, by glistening shards
Like taunting reminders of failure

The desecrated haven
Suddenly a cacophony of silence
So deafening, overwhelming
That common sense is obliterated
A sub-sonic logic-assassin

And an insidious darkness
Creeps like pervasive vines
Like a virulent mould
Feasting on fortitude and reason
And on love

Hope subsides
As degradation begins
In perfect synchronicity
Bit by bit, piece by piece
Leaving only the shell

The facade feigns stability
Yet the interior turns to dust
The rot has taken control
And I can’t help but feel lonely
Abandoned, decrepit, ramshackle