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You left
A footprint
On the wood panel
In front of me

Your wet soles
From dewed grass
And drunk squats

Your mark
Lays upon me
I know you’re near
But not here
Conor Martin Mar 2017
Symphony of Silence throughout the night
Doors and windows latched and locked tight
Sleeping softly as dreams ******
Troubled times when morals where subdued

We’re shoulder to shoulder with the **** or the ***,
Look at themn's with the same eyes, not down the barrel of a gun
The pasts only purpose now, Make the blind clearly see
The mistakes they made with their ******’ corrupt legacy

It’s quiet in the cities cobbled streets, the birds pick at first light
Emerge from their nests, Like our generation glimpses first sight
The new formed world from the rubble of this war
No emblem or flag can heal wounds this vicious or raw
Brick by Brick, The walls of Peace rose to keep in hate
There’s no more guerrillas in the street, Only as heads of State

The Family divided, A Birds clipped wing
This Island, Our home,
Shared together
or
Squandered Alone
The North is quite simply, The most politically and culturally frustrating place to live in, Beyond people feeling so self entitled believing that their culture is better than anyone else's we are cannon fodder to the representatives who regularly pit one side against the other in order to enhance personal and political agenda, Do not read this believing that one side is more or less guilty than the other. Both sides of the co-existing divide are guilty of things beyond the comprehension of the wider population.
I Wrote this in one of my moments of frustration.
Brendan Sansome May 2015
Mr McParland;
our Primary 4 teacher lived in Newry,
Northern Ireland.
Not a City in those days,
but a dangerous border town.
He had wiry hair like a blonde Afro.

Pat Jennings;
world class goalkeeper for his country,
was also born in Newry.
Our man claimed to know him,
and went to school with the green giant.
We believed without reproach.

Yours truly;
age 6 & 7, in the years of the Hunger Strikes,
born in Belfast.
I was enthralled because Pat was of another
world to kids reared in our divided times.
A symbol of hope on an island of doubt.
Antonio Fonseca Sep 2014
Seagulls on the beach
along them chanting, I exist.
A mountain overlap on slaying deranged.

Mind-blown,
portrait of yore.
Sweet Belfast;
Antique,
unique,
ambiguous,
get obscene, now!

— The End —