Obscured in Beacon's Field

I can still smell the house on Beaconsfield wintry summer visits, wood chipping rot and my murder of newt. Morbid I know this house and me, we are both haunted. People who didn't care Came inside us Leaving us mangled and stinking. Taken on as "jobs" never loved, left in the projects. Unfinished, dead before we knew how to be liveable. Wriggling on the bed the flushed bodies try to make their escape. Decay lifted up, they look for their space. Sun streams through the shadow. On this battleground, guts are spilled, a comrade is lost. Fire-bellied and sticky, we try to escape the ugly light. They've exposed us, entered the doors in our homes and stomped on our frames.