Open Face

When I open my face
I cease to dream
Surprisingly I can still breathe.
I swill away the sucking air
With calm contentment.

I ablated my hysterical face
In the fondest context.
And screed the sky;
I puff out stars and clouds
And re-skimmed their surfaces.

The Cosmos is my king.
I reflect like a dullard.
I tease my answers softly,
From this hump,
Swollen after carrying my cross.

And this vastness warps
And wends my way each night,
Like some subatomic shell.
I live by circular thought,
I count in digital time.

There is patterning
In such madness.
As when deaf persons sing.
Numbers, time and rhythm.
Circles, markings, lines.

I roller-coast through a lifers time,
To shudder then to cling.
I have qued with thronging Lunes
in ques of a marathons’ length.
Twenty six plus shuffling miles.

Now I come again to the chase,
As a mere flicker and I’m frozen.
I cast my lines, as a stiff defense,
I am cribbed and crumple blind.
I am surely poorly designed.

© 2018  Christopher Thompson

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