A shock of venom
oh, succulent hate
like honey to the most avid tongue.

We could turn away
carve a shallow life from the thin bone of oblivion
construct intricate vortices in which to endlessly swirl.

We could withdraw
terminal distrust gradually withering our lives
it would not still the voices screaming.

I seek the source of my own complicity
backtrack to the point at which I swung
from disillusioned to disengaged

my apathy mistaken for acceptance.

Don't
place high
hopes on low grounds.

I sit on the step
And draw
The cold around me
Like a blanket,
Savouring the numbness
And the heat
That begins within.
Swallowed by the night
Drunk on wine
And stars.
Hot tears on cold cheeks.
Seasoning for
Chapped lips
Stinging
Bringing fresh tears.
I take refuge
In the silence,
Under the gaze of
Sympathetic eyes.
My friends.
My constant companions.
Drunk on wine
And stars.

the thunder of
a small bird.

a poem grows shadows
and moonscapes,

the moon,
withered sapphires,
undone,
her open windows
a thread of bright
light.

I’m no author, novelist or poet.
I’m just Me,
And don’t I know it.
I don’t need to be classified,
As long as I’m writing, I’m satisfied.

Typing out words, line by line,
I don’t care if they don’t rhyme.
I don’t care if my verses don’t scan:
I’m not always an Iambic Man.

I just say what I gotta say,
I’m not worried about any pay.
Words come to me without much bidding,
The world of its evils I hope to be ridding.

I love to spread lots and lots of Love,
Bringing peace to all like a messenger dove.
Things of beauty bring joy, John Keats rightly said,
To make us sleep easy when we go to bed.

So I’ll paint what I paint,
And sing what I sing,
Just letting those words
Do their magical thing.

Paul Butters