hartwood asylum

doves-foot flowers in the walls
a creeping petalled caress

bracken rooted brick and mortar
letting go its grip where

splintered windows yawn
their silent decaying scream

born of melancholy skies
abandoned, left to the rain

like the aberrated mortals
this mizzle covered carcass used to contain

and a sign points the way to the dead
where their freshly laundered souls

can be collected, as they wander
trailing spectral fingers through rip-gut brome

unsure of what to do
now that distempers’ veils are gone

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