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Murders’,
amongst the drink,
the rock n roll,
motorcycles and the quietness of a 16th century millhouse,
infrequent seizures on the high street.
Murders’,
bicycles and dogs,
womble commons,
a walk to the pond,
roses red as blood on a brick wall,
the off license across the street.
Murders’,
the blackness in the history of the city,
in it’s dirt, it’s institutions,
in minds,
insidiously and creeping, a constant battle.
I feel it will get
its way,
achieve its end,
it’s a long game we are ill equipped to fight,
somewhere out there a restful place,
this side or that…
Inspiration:
A friends struggles of a friend with depression and drink.
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