Our Last Walk. by Jonathan Butcher

 

Under the shadow of that imposing grey mass of steel

and concrete, we make the drink filled promises of ill

thought out reunions, that never for a sober minute

would ever be considered rational.

 

Your fingers clamped to the cigarette papers, now slightly

aged and cracked, your wit now seems cut with the weakest

substitute, just like your powders; diluted beyond recognition

and you assumed we didn't notice.

 

That scar upon your left cheek that you would finger when

making a point, the bottle circulating next to your knee.

We would pray for an encompassing silence, to stifle the

fear drawn from your credulity.

 

The bruises left on rib cages like rain stained rose petals,

answered any question asked incorrectly, but we have now all

caught up with your withered expectations, but under this warming

sun now even your shadow looks old.

Jonathan Butcher is a poet based in Sheffield, England. He has had work
appear in various print and online publications including: Plastic Futures, Sick-Lit,
The Transnational, The Morning Star, Mad Swirl, Picaroon Poetry, Amaryllis
and others. His second chapbook 'Broken Slates' has been published by 
Flutter Press.