Masquerades Unearthed Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

Wherever you go, if you quietly linger
There are memory residues galore.
There is nothing ever 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; it's a gobbledygook.
Thought that a broken toy was beloved.

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

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