poem

the streets burn soul drifts black as the night the path
ally ways with gates holding in the poverty
take aways and pubs limited health
holes filled with pot paused memories
outskirts of town filled with fields to depressed to walk
big dogs small chains the owner beating him self
a canal with a beginning and end but no map
could say a vicious sickle but set as a circle
capsized by the government life jacket food from a bank
[my words lee smillie]

 

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