Jonathan Butcher

The Last

The broken shards of glass, sit patiently 

behind our eyes, as each colour begins to

flash, like a malfunctioning strobe light.

We walk just the distance needed, our feet 

in forced harmony, the green plastic bottles

stuck to our hands, that cut our lips at the

first sip, as we rest upon that rotten log, 

our refuge for the last ten years. 

And my sight seems again more focused, on

the hazed horizon, as your consistent jabbering 

carries across this breeze like racing dandelion 

seeds, my ears now responsive to everything

but your words.

Our last drop is now sunk, as my thoughts then

rehydrate the creases from the night previous, and

again under your constant guidance, I commit

to that hollow promise to make this my last.

Cemetery

Having breakfast in the old cemetery, our pupils 

now dilated enough to absorb the suns first light,

you sit, your jacket worn from last nights antics,

yet your hands remain just as delicate as ever.

And the gravestones stand grey and moss covered,

the names long now faded, like torn scrolls, and shadow 

the dying grass that form our blanket. 

Your voice now a lasting annoyance, offers the only

distraction from this hankering silence as my legs,

dehydrated, cramp up once more, that leaves me

with that lasting limp, that fails to gather your attention, 

yet still makes my journey home that little easier.

 

 

Jonathan Butcher has been writing poetry for around five years. He has had recent work appear in Popshot Magazine, Electric Windmill Press, The Rusty Nail, Turbulence and Black-Listed Magazine. He Lives in Sheffield in the north of England