Our fingers, reflective due to constant
splashes of chrome, each evening
they mirror the street lights and sirens.
Within a few seconds, that surface is now
embalmed by our letters, like a null
and void contract, serving a purpose
only for ourselves.
A minimum of four colours, blended
upon concrete, its bricks and cracks
now irrelevant, our wrists as swift
as improvised notes played by rotten
fingers. The windows inscribed with
our names like grit-filled scars, removed
only once they turned septic.
And as the cameras force us to wane,
our voices no longer stained our fingers,
but echoed down more cleansed avenues.
Those walls now pristine, untouched
by hands with wayward knowledge,
their only purpose to orchestrate our
silence; instead, they eventually feed
©Jonathan Butcher all rights reserved
Jonathan Butcher is a poet based in Sheffield, England. He has had work appear in various print and online publications including: Popshot, Ex-Ex Literature, The Transnational, Sick-Lit, Drunk Monkeys, The Morning Star, Mad Swirl and others. He edits the online poetry journal Fixator Press, through which his third chapbook, ‘Corroded Gardens‘ was published.