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.