deepundergroundpoetry.com
the apartment
The apartment
No, I don't miss my old home the one I rebuilt
from a stable till a house, although its soul never stopped
being a stable a place for those who have no voice.
Thick walls made by stone from the small land windows
animals do not need light.
But walls talk I still hear their murmur and the hoof of
the mule scraping on the floor as it was dreaming of still
ploughing the field and in pen, the pigs slept unaware
that in the morning one of them would be slaughtered.
I still hear it squeals when the truth dawned.
So much history and no one will ever know what I have
Seen and heard.
No, I don't miss my old home the one I rebuilt
from a stable till a house, although its soul never stopped
being a stable a place for those who have no voice.
Thick walls made by stone from the small land windows
animals do not need light.
But walls talk I still hear their murmur and the hoof of
the mule scraping on the floor as it was dreaming of still
ploughing the field and in pen, the pigs slept unaware
that in the morning one of them would be slaughtered.
I still hear it squeals when the truth dawned.
So much history and no one will ever know what I have
Seen and heard.
Published 4th Nov 2018
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