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the off white that marks a deeper shade of grey
narrow creeping corridors
haunted by orphan windows
each step rattles loudly
the hum of hushed voices
chairs crushed in on top of waiting
there are no clocks or pictures or calendars
only the paint peeling off like dead skin
time turned ashen
everyone here becomes old
the magazines flicker nervously
a cough is crushed
there is a draft of fear
no one speaks
yet we can see through each other to the bone

Aoife Mannix

If you've any comments on this poem, Aoife Mannix would be pleased to hear from you.