Masquerades Unearthed Poem by Mark Heathcote

Wherever you go, if you want, linger.
There are memories and residues galore.
There is nothing unfamiliar.
The remnants of a sweatshop we abhor.

Like the musky smell of a rotten book
But the fact is, all objects were once loved.
It doesn't matter if it was a gobbledygook-
thought. That broken toy was beloved.

A well-worn mattress brought peace and rest.
When we enter a derelict building
There are ghosts we can all manifest
Listen, and you almost hear their nattering.

Machines humming a deafening chorus;
Malnourished children wearing fedoras
In modern times, sadly, they haven't changed.
Mother's work: 60 hours; it's all a masquerade.