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
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