Sunday, 1 February 2015


The Dream.

It was impossible to reach the window. A pile of ash, heavy, grey and dark stood in my way. I couldn’t ignore the raised mound of muck that kept me from the view of the hill. The waste wasn’t all ash. In parts it was oily, purple or black and with a shadow as dark as a November night. The emotional stink coming from the pile was toxic and pitiful.
 
Locked in a room but would have to get past me
a manifest content of suffrage 




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