I GOT A TICKET TO THE WORKHOUSE
And I don’t know if my heart is broken or not?
I GOT A TICKET TO THE WORKHOUSE
Born to a life of destitution
I got a ticket to the workhouse.
Separated from my family
Stripped of clothes and possessions
Deloused and disinfected.
Starvation and sickness rampant
A place where no one smiles
And hunger gnaws at me like a worm.
A day-to-day fight to stay alive
No better than prison
Labelled an inmate
The language is the same.
The foul stench
Of urine and vomit
Coats the washroom.
Barred windows
Cream paint flaked walls
Iron beds and thin sheets.
Three meals a day
Bread, porridge and potatoes
Unfit for human consumption
Sometimes chewing the marrow
Out of rancid bones.
Wind blowing through my hair
In the middle of the night
Locks opening, doors slamming
People lying like corpses in the dim light.
Now breaking stones and old bones
I don’t know if my heart is broken or not?
About the Creator
Paul Asling
I share a special love for London, both new and old. I began writing fiction at 40, with most of my books and stories set in London.
MY WRITING WILL MAKE YOU LAUGH, CRY, AND HAVE YOU GRIPPED THROUGHOUT.
paulaslingauthor.com
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