I neither have or hold office.

I have command over nothing

Other than my current Poem.

Thus such a word lock is my Furness,

My rightful place, my feelings world,

The dwelling in which I suffer.

I have my own limits,

Ì am shut in.

I never leave a room.

Formed within, that place

Which had no exit.

No escape hatch, door

Or birthing canal.

There exists only one key,

But I find no lock will fit.

The key therefore is my situation.

I salute the locksmith

Who made for me such a key.

I belong in poetry, my medium,

In which I can burn, but not to ash.

I can never be quenched either.

I am neither metal or a metal man.

I have only Poetry as my prize.

It is my Silver and sometimes

It is my Gold.

I stay put.

Unborn to this world,

I am like some perminant womb child.

Never able to be delivered,

Always in the making,

Never perfecting.

Chilled or frozen,

I strip out my sentences,

As though they were

Flakes from the North.

I can never be melted,

Though I sometimes

Melt the hearts and minds

Of others.

C2019 Christopher Thompson

All rights reserved.

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