Local Poetry

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One moment, we must count the precious things.
The artificial snow coated the forbidden lands.
Landan. Swansea.

One, two, three, five, twelfty, six.

Twelfty.
Twelfty candles
Twelfty I can I can't
Twelfty precious things
Twelfty

But who is up the stairs?
Or in the attic?
They pop out, in search for a no tail.

Wanted.
A local.

Did you know that Edward was in a war?
But what made him want to be local?
Tubbs?
David?

They all must leave now,
Before the flames come.

One spark and it will all go.
Local history gone.
By a mistake made by Benjamin.

Benjamin.
Benjamin you idiot.