The Rules

A Poem by Jonathan Butcher

We roam once more, as sedate as palace
guards, the slightest upheaval from the
narrow road shocks us into consciousness.

The morning now brighter, with the absence
of sleep, the sunlight hits the nearby puddles,
shredding its beams into harmless blades.

Another story is told through your dried, chapped
lips at the usual maddening pace, like a jury’s
verdict to the guilty, your hands swaying like
pythons to the charmer.

You tell of your clichéd menace; harassing the
elderly, local shop keepers and the girl who only
speaks when shouted at. With colossal pride,
you recite your misdemeanours without a glimmer
of irony.

And again you brag how all this was possible,
without the aid of weapons, only your bare hands
and tongue, no stones or catapults welded, as to
be armed, would of course, be against the rules.

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