Dead inside

My world has become shrink wrapped in asbestos
insulated from any fire that warmed my heart,
works has turned into a cold, lifeless morgue
since they gutted any morale and slaughtered trust,
eliminated faces that had been there for years,
carved up the rest of us until we no longer
have any passion for other than survival.

At home we have a fake Christmas tree
it reflects the lack of love and death in joy,
a shell of a shelter with decaying lives.

I live next to a cemetery and near a cement plant
now they say the plant is spewing poison in the air,
it’s hard to hold onto the fading and fleeting future
when so many neighbors are getting sicker each day
and we can’t sell the place or leave.

Not sure the graves next door
aren’t better homes than our crumbling castle,
in the night we turn on the television
to distract from the dark that is crawling inside.

Once we has dreams,
now they are corpses in our bed,
we exchanged holidays for wakes,
carols for dirges,
hope to survive the failed economy
only with all that has vanished and depleted,
health enduring cancerous assaults,
sometimes that graveyard becomes a fantasy
where at least things would keep declining
and wouldn’t have to struggle
for a reason to want another sunrise.