The sky darkened - rain clouds appeared

Silver droplets began to fall - felt like bullets

Were quickly spent as they hit the ground.

As I fumbled through the years of lost memories

Now known as rubbish and broken liquor bottles

Trying desparately to get the hell out of here

Someone or something brushed up against me.

As it walked unremorsely down the alley way

I distinctly heard a "ghostly roll of drums beating

a deftly measure for forgotten lives" - scared the

ever loving crap out of me as the sound got louder.

The rain now intensified to such a deafening roar

that it created a whole new definition - one you

would find in a dictionary between fear and hate

Droplets were now ricocheting like broken glass.

Small puddles now formed streams - quickly

carrying away reflections from buildings above

Along with them were the tormented faces of

inhabitants haunted by their ancestors dreams.

Ancestors who lived one-dimensional lives in

crowded tenements, or incorporeal properties

held by listless landlords; listless as a damaged

ship that was on its way to the bottom of the sea.

The Dark Silhouette reappeared like a bad memory

Carried with it the screams of those who jumped

from twenty-story windows - mainly the Irish who

had lived in darkness ever since they landed here.

It lived here on a permanent basis - in an uninviting

and unnerving way; circled round like a vulture

preying on one corpse after another - not only was

it a specter, it was also a gruesome spectator.

I knew deep down in my gut that it was the Grim

Reaper; had come to reap, but not in a field of wheat

No, it was sent here, to this dead end alley - had

come to ruin people's lives brick by crumbling brick.

Crumbling, like an immigrant's life whose hopes fell into

small fragments - like a broken mirror, except they had

more than seven years bad luck; more like a lifetime's

worth; no luck of the Irish could piece them together again.

I finally made it out of that dead end alley - left the brick

and mortar buildings sitting there in disrepair, but they were

really made of sweat and tears - for all the generations had

left their marks in the form of unhealed scars . . . tis a pity!

'2008' RLS