23 May 2012
The lightbulb swings its glare, Showing only half at a time. Though the dank smell tells me enough. This place is a squatters prime.
The graffiti on the walls, The soiled mattresses on the floor, A old cracked gas fire, Was pushed up against the door.
How can anyone live this way? They'd have to be desperate too. But I suppose as shelter for the night... It'll just have to do.
Squatter • Opuss № I