The sun rises craftily, as we drag that mattress
through the abandoned car park with the same
fragile film across our over-worked eyes. That
last sliver of high, that gradually settles through our
back-bones, and leaves us greedy for the light behind.

We settle amongst the patches of grass and dandelions,
that shake seeds like snow storms. We compare misadventures
with the usual hint of competition, that will only wilt when recognised.
Our skin prepares for reconditioning, to hide those all too frequent
blemishes.

A slight shatter of glass at our feet brings us round,
our knees lift us back down that unpolished path,
that offers a dim light you refused to accept, leaving
us without doubt, that this would ever repeat; our
presence to be muttered in whispers, by no one else
accept ourselves.

– Jonathan Butcher