Masquerades Unearthed

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.