The Presence

The Presence

There is a presence

And it casts a long shadow.

It is of me in my youth.

It eminates from my distant past,

And draws its green line

As a circle around my living history.

I am indeed of my past,

But I am not held in the clutches

Of a far gone yesterday.

For I choose.

My choice is reburied here,

As descriptions

Within the confines of these lines.

You see I too am able to draw,

But my pencil is become my sentence.

I shade no image with marks on canvas.

I draw upon my past

And infer a pastel puzzle

Entwined and wild,

A raw insight,


But non the less learned, and by roat,

On lifes eclectic byways.

And the presence?

My stirring soul,

My guilt and page

My hidden outrage.

My simple singular self

And loathing.

Christopher Thompson

© 2018 all rights reserved

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