Jonathan Butcher

Direction

We stand on that verge once again,
hanging by limp, depleting threads.
Our mouths stuffed with masticated
words that we spit out like blunted
bullets, their targets now lost in the
ether.

These same roads surround us,
unmarked, yet cracked. The concrete
reaching each corner, with obsessive
perfection, their surfaces like over used
notice boards, with messages tragically
out of date.

A certain smugness hangs in the air,
like ash-filled cobwebs, the shallow
intents not spoken, but suggested
through broken teeth, but never powerful
enough for us to change direction, as we
remain again on that same, broken path.

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