Three words on my pillow;
Not photograph, or regret,
Or unfinished.

My demons creep in concert
With my willfulness,
And decrypt;
With my ever awake conscience,
Who I am.
In tones of a faded vignette,
And I am admonished.
After which light evasion
Seemed most fitting,
And so to sleep.

Now I have further regrets,
For getting unconscious
And not facing up to their wrath.

Your tongue begets my willow
And my wrong wood dries,
As you saw away at my nightmare
You blemish me and my ring
“only figuratively speaking” I fear.

But the last laugh
Is had in my head,
Casting my mind
Further beyond my birth,
When I conceived
My very first verse
Written with the wisdom of the Zygote.

This is me.

Dr Chris Zilch.


©2018 Christopher Thompson

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