Sunday, August 16, 2015

The Gardens

I sit embedded in these gardens; an enclosed
island that sits like a septic scab on the city's pale,
malnourished skin. Again they offer a home
and shelter from another avoided shift, that once
again grants that time which I have no desire to fill.

Another blank face passes by, their words
far too affluent for my ignorant ears to
comprehend; a voice educated but lacking
basic knowledge. I subject my nerves to this
torture, till they retreat from want of respite.

Through wilted roses, this afternoon sinks
heavier by the minute. Yet more eyes stare
through ash covered thorns, arms threaded
with silver needles. I convince them I'm busy in
minor thoughts, till I feel the breeze of their passing.

That slow dissipating moment between myself and
the dried, brittle grass now eases somewhat, returning
that clarity once more. I breathe out confusion along with
my smoke, and I refuse the chance of escape once more
which even after this haze, still seems to make sense.


-- Jonathan Butcher

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