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Butcher Boy

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Butcher Boy

Profit In Your Poetry

Chime, chime, chime, you chime like a melody. So comfortably lashed to sleeve, so settled into the rhyme. So I can see the detail so beautifully, the snow and the crane and the tree, your eyes reflecting my eyes.

I think I understand why you make do, so secretly I paint the mirrors blue. I can see you sleep and see you bleed, and I can see the profit in your poetry.

Shine, shine, shine with each Ayrshire syllable, initally lashed to the wall then written into the rhyme. But I can see the details are killing me, the dust on the crockery, the uselessness of the ride.

I think I understand why you make do, I'm falling in a world that dotes on you. Where I can see you sleep and see you bleed but there's no need for pity or for parity.

I think I understand why you make do and I refuse to turn my back on you. I have seen you sleep and seen you bleed but don't let this be your only memory of me.