To Stratford and back pt1

These works are such an angst

As could no worse in any other trial.

Be it of the order of my just liberty

Or of all my earlier tests in life?

These lines refuse to tell,

These spey sorry words

Do make of me a gelded fellow.

I am all but novel, as though

I am happened, sterile of all unction.

These lifted sayings

Come trooping, not of tongue,

As mortal items would.

But instead meagre offerings

Caught of lines, knot tied, within

This the pit of the psyche.

And the fetching of,

Becomes the burden to be carried

On a yoke, for the duration of life.

I have flung words from these fingers

Shaken vigorously to be free of them.

And the portent has melded

With the newer expressions.

I and us are the concentrate, made ready

For the whirlpool of the simple.

Unified by conscience and suffering,

We glint in the pale light of mystification.

Like piano keys pressed in tuneful adoration,

Of The Silent and Soulful Few,

We soak up the harmonics of the light.

We are gone like an arrow.

We are far and wide.

Now we are downy and different.

Having dropped as dead weight

Through slight of hand

From the subconscious region

Of the cortex of the singular glove.

©2019 Christopher Thompson

All rights reserved.

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