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