My Lake

Is not of a Wet Brain.

For neither the bottle

Nor the Bar Stool

Any longer compel me.

 

I am too, a while since,

Scorched dry of my images’ slake.

And being now trifled properly;

I abide these days steady

And without a drunkards’ penny.

 

Yes, I do indeed have a lake.

A lake that is filled with words.

And these words, like water

Are Duel, they are entwined,

Circum.

 

Having two intents.

They take life; they give death.

Acting on some

Like it’s their final breath and Rattle.

Their last gasped chance.

 

Defiant of the Doom bot.,

Whose habits lie beyond being ghostly,

Whose death is intellectually Final.

Whose words spread forth their danger;

Are soft on the tongue, like a  whispers nurse.

 

And in others vice versa;

Acting like birth pangs or stones,

Granite solid.

These other words

Harbour love.

 

Wherein, and across the vast expanse

Of a life time,

Within and throughout which

Many minds may timely,

Earth and quake.

 

There threads a temporal sense,

Of all being well, so all is well,

In echo of, a given,

A simple understanding;

Even a comfort.

 

A slither of contentment.

Against which to blither with rapid fire,

Some words to seek to explain;

Some words to redefine not blame.

Some effort in works to try to inflame.

 

And these dice-like rhyming triplets,

Once tossed, having hung at their pinnacle,

Descend to a chancers phase.

Then dance, spilt to a halt, are still now and revealing,

Yet, uninterrupted are requiring to be read.

 

Words for which I am to be fined,

In my case, for being that, of questionable character.

A clumsy life, lived with a quartered deck.

A harvest shuffle and my most singular curse.

A writer with a cloak of verse.

 

 

Christopher Thompson

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