HOUSE OF THE DEAD

HOUSE OF THE DEAD

In the asylum, every day

Was an occasion for feelings �

Gathered round an invisible table,

Waiting to be healed. Like injured birds,

We were broken and mad, slit-wristed

And imbalanced. For two months

We grew restless. During group meetings

We told them, we don�t belong here.

We wanted out, and everything else

That came along with the pain.

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