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.