Monday, February 15, 2016

poem || Jonathan Butcher

The Last Rule

As it slowly approaches shards of glass,
sit patiently our hands are still just as each
light begins.The eyes that serve the functioning
strobe light, refuses to play music for that matter.
The wraps are passed, again more focused, on
due telegrams. As your jabbering through the green
breeze like racing dandelions that never seemed
responsive to everything are exchanged. Outside
the pile of grey sunk, as my thoughts then more
plead for any superfluous from the night previous,
and never your strong point constant guidance
I commit a mere conscience to make this my last,
but now of course the chapped lips at maddening pace
as the dust settles without a glimmer, again you brag
only your bare hands and tongue, those aching
sentences spew forth, your hands swaying, you tell
your backwards menace again a fading flicker that
lost its spark an age ago. 

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