I Eye So To Speak

I neither do, nor dare to lift the brush

or leg the potters wheel.

I mark nothing with woods chisels.

And steel is rust and ringing to me.

I would really weld in a mess.

I Smthy in words

My lush, hushed fragrencies which

Comit me to crying.

When I become dazzled

I scratch with pencil,

To weather the stomach

To stomach the storm.

I reason within tent.

I collide with conscience

And countermeasure.

I give thought its chance

When the root is outed.

Then I will have reasoned with intent.

My chromite

Solves the fiddlers puzzle

To the violinists delight.

Once again the Calf is skipping.

Thus my eye cringes a little less

As the particles deminish.

When I am breathless

My metre will be lain

Next my moral body

Anchored to my knowledge.

I will seep no more

My skimpy lines.

This wordy world whistle

Will finaly fall silently

At the edge of my extent.

Copyright 2018 Christopher Thompson

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