GloMag GloMagMay2019 - Page 134

A river of guilt aching to quench, wet and splash, Drifting feet less this ghost, in nooks spawned by mould and mite, There it hangs from the ceiling, a torn and lonely kite, Luring the heart this temptress strikes when the time is right, You know you’ve lost the battle resisting it, but with your shadows you fight, Where money cannot buy happiness, health or peace, Caught and tugged by minimalism, a fad now, a disease, It hisses down the neck of pillars and walls, Where the air stifles, and where an eerie wisp crawls, All made up, redundancy an abandoned bride, in a dead mall, Where a few big names pose as faceless mannequins standing inert and tall, It spreads like an epidemic that has no cure, 134