The fan that
Stutters
In windows glass
Wheezes in
Its every turn
Alcohol and nicotine
Weary eyes
Thoughts that burn.
The last pub
On a wasteground
Better years
Its seen
Photos on
Its yellowed walls
Boxers battered faces
Outward beam.
Its regulars
Old and gnarly
Drawn back
As in a dream
A million hopes
Now faded
One step to oblivion
So it seems.
-
Author:
nephilim56 (
Offline) - Published: February 10th, 2025 03:36
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 30
Offline)
Comments3
A poignant write about the demolition of past communities, i can just picture that pub with everything else around it demolished, waiting for it`s own fate, enjoyed the read.
Thanking you
You are very welcome
Whether place or in metaphor a person this write paints a picture of deterioration and aging that will soon be its destruction. Well written
very kind of you, thanks
And as we get on in years we see more and more of this around us, in other places and within ourselves as well… a striking work 🙏🏻🕊
very kind of you, thanks
You are most welcome 🙏🏻🕊️
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.