I spin forward with the same clumsy grace
I did so many times during those nights,
as I feel that hand slow my pace, and keep
my dizziness stable, for an hour at least.
And as further clarity creeps in like an
unwanted guest, he talks me from my
stupor, and slowly attempts to dim the
very lights that lead me here, and dilutes
the time that each week I hold so sacred
like a new born babies hand,
and that I swing from Monday to Thursday,
my compass jammed and rusted, any chance
of direction lost, my skin creeping at the very
thought of respite.
Again in this room, my feet sticking to over
used carpet, which accentuates the rush though
my shins, as my jaw tingles, and allows the blood
to run at it's own bitter pace.
His words again superfluous, as I admire the bad
design job on the vending machine's sides, again
he outstretches his hand, and with sharpened teeth,
I bite it clean off.
The Day Trip
I try to visit places distant from
before, my shoes worn like third
hand furniture, my face just as
Although built with the same hands
and concrete, the walls seem alien
here; I'm able to etch my name upon
any given surface.
To rest here is uneasy, the parkas
and duffle coats framing our just
formed heads, and smoking over
ashtrays, that to steal would be a
terrible waste of cunning.
I await now the trip back to our blankets,
that still seem to hang despite our
protests, and keep the creases in
my hands ironed out, yet still defined.
Jonathan Butcher has been writing poetry for around five years. He has had work appear in various print on on-line publications.