Halfway House (dedicated to Lynne FincherSpringGarden)
Tired, soulless, vacant eyes,
Anonymous, below dark skies.
Stare silently, through grimy glass,
As minutes, hours, and days, just pass.
Tattered armchairs, soaked in pain,
Shelter, whispered prayers, in vain.
Shuffling steps, in ghastly halls,
Are muffled by the bloodstained walls.
There is no sign, or breath, of hope,
For these poor souls, who fail to cope.
Just whisky days, and wine fueled nights,
To dull the glare of demon lights.
Throughout this sad and soulful place,
I see no sign, of God's good grace.
As if the inmates realize,
This is the road, to their demise.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
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