Eastát na Sí

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“A perfect place to raise a family.”

An unachievable utopian aspiration,

A tarnished legacy claimed its grave.


Under streetlights that flicker still

Ghost-bright over identical crypts,

Ragged vacant lots never filled.


Frigid apathy amidst forgotten shells;

Fragmented cookie-cutter cast-offs,

Hollow and rigour mortis settling in.


A lack of saint and sinners walk by

Bare copper bones and wasted hubris

On dead grass islets of cans and rollups.


Perish beside trapped, unhappy souls

Fenced in by white picket idealism,

Ageing too fast in seasons of waiting.


Dust to dust, repossessed by nature,

Marked with mausoleum baby dolls,

Festering within an eternal perdition.

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Elaine Mullarkey

About the Author: Elaine Mullarkey

She/Her Wordsmith and bibliophile that does a spot of writing every now and again.

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