Where are the forsaken?
What are they gripping onto?
The chalks or the pencils,
The quill or the window sill?
I bang my head on my pillow,
I find out it is softer and safer than bricks.
At this time
I am speaking to you with the touch
Of The Midwife.
Poets tend to graze easily,
I am no exception.
Yes these are silent weeps that I send you.
Who will listen to the whisperings
Of a fingered voice, even if it is cupped and
Cabling all around the world?
For tonight again I write ink-less.
I simply slide my tongue across my screen,
In an instant I see words, but am hearing nothing
Of my screaming.
My hand becomes my voice to the world.
So now it is Goodbye and Hello
And welcome to my world of pretense.
(C) 2018 Christopher Thompson