Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Iris Bentley – Another Victim Of British Justice

There is a lonely room at the back of the house,

an empty chair at breakfast,

a path that lays dormant, never walked because he never got the chance.

Time stopped when he left,

I know you didn’t feel it, but I did.

There was a part of me,

torn from my soul,

separated,

tormented by rope,

taken,

because somebody made a “mistake”,

put in place by a longing for revenge,

a lack of empathy…

“Oh sweetheart,

don’t you see that SOMEONE had to swing,

to keep the world turning?”

I hear that,

from lips that don’t even think I deserve an explanation,

so they don’t speak,

but I see it,

I hear it,

I feel it,

in everything you do.

I see it in the way you look away when my mother cries.

I hear it in the way you are silent when the time for a reprieve comes.

I feel it, when nine o’clock comes, and I am at sea, sinking in the tears of the many nine o’clocks, and all their misery.

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