These are my days of passing and repassing
in numbers of flurried pace. These years of long
successions and varieties of place. Those airs
of yesterday, of wards and patronage –

Fleet life tilled in falsehood if I did not sweep
deep my pockets into yours. Surely those in rags,
secreted and busied in rubbish bins, are our wards
in these cold days of passing and repassing pace.





Inspired and remixed from Bleak House by C. Dickens






Written for Poetic Asides “False”


2 thoughts on “Charity

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