This Shabby Place

 

The odour leaks through the gaps

around the twisted window frames

It spirals over that weed grown obstacle

that was once and is no longer a path

and pollutes nostrils, so pure and so polite

Rank and bitter, bile rises in response.

 

It is an honest smell

that speaks of decay

and the natural processes

of creation and renewal

 

The house is dead

Death leads to life

but we hide from its honest perfume,

blotting it out with the bland and safe

A pretence, maybe to hide inside

safely hidden from the march of time

and deaths looming grasp.

 

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This Shabby Place

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