On the other side of the road

between the cracks in the walls

the moss grows,

unrestrained,

unbidden

free to feel,

to just be and subsist.

But on the edge of these bulwarks,

confined amidst these fences,

the gates of our living hell are tall

and we stand alone.

There is no safe haven across the Channel.

Just dreary buildings made of bricks and mortar

unwelcoming our bodies

and crippling our souls.

And we hold up.

We hold on for that settlement letter

that will solve all

and make breathing,

living here

so much better.

Meanwhile,

the newspapers shout

for the world to believe,

point fingers at us

and see

just

leeches

whores

thieves

detritus

undressed of humanity

adrift