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Old Places

By Jamie WilkinsonPublished 7 years ago 1 min read
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Walls coloured custard

with faded silk stripes,

edges eaten into threads

by starving insects.

Crying from dank,

rot-punctured ceilings,

the deafening drips

of porous pipes.

Billowing drapes

of drowsy moth villages,

surrounded by hollowed

ancestral shells.

Splintered window shards

glimmering throughout,

like an ageless symphony

of shattered glass.

There is much life

in fleshy bubbling fungus,

a whole new universe

of slippery blackness.

Dizzying spirals

of floating dust dots,

appearing to linger

in defiance of time.

Stillness screams

from a rusted hinge,

come in.

vintage
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About the Creator

Jamie Wilkinson

23 year old writer/poet from Montreal, Canada.

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