The remaining shards of pomp, scatter the
landscape in equal measures to the papers
littered with their torrid faces.
They grin from the page, another one spawned
from their polished claws, its fate just thrown
into the cycle, to repeat the age old tumbles
Not one tear is shed by the ones still
locked in their dampened caverns, rubbing
two pieces of silver in hope of a spark, that
may throw forward some light, and give an
excuse for the laughter to continue.
They still remain buried, their roofs never
anything resembling shelter, whilst those
faces continue to stare through papers,
that never seem to turn to dust.
The eyes never seem to forget, even if the
the limbs do, and the frailty seems unsupported,
and is allow free reign over arms and joints.
The radio, now taken apart for the third time,
with hands that where always so precise, like
a kestrel's swoop, like a watch makers eye.
That slight glitch of recognition, rarely makes
up for that lost movement, that leaves that foot
print, which then dissolves in the slightest
Jonathan Butcher is a poet based in Sheffield in the North of England. He has had work appear in various print and on-line publications including: Underground Voices, Electric Windmill Press, Black-Listed Magazine Elbow Room, Popshot, and Dead Beats. He has forthcoming work appearing in The English Chicago Review and Prototype Magazine. His Chapbook 'Concrete Cradle' has recently been published by Fire Hazard Press.
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