that’s me;

old fashioned autistic,

stuck in the 1880s,

as a haunted mansion.

big old house,

full of ghosts no doubt,

big windows,

big doors,

nice shiny floors.

lots of people who ignore me,

as I waft past in the hallway.

lots of stuff I can’t use,

rotten old food,

at best bruised.

the water is effluent,

the stones all excrement,

fracking under my toes.

the world is what we make it,

I don’t like shit on my shoes.

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