Whether this be a poem or a short course of thought
It is not of a stream of grace, that is for sure.
This is neither a tap into the Psyche
Nor a vapour set in signs and myths.
These musings are not of this or any place.
But rather the vaults of neither world or space,
Even as imagination is not a void, there are stirrings of newness.
Which are merely possessions of the stringent armoury of hindsight
For although that is indeed all that we have,
We distinguish ourselves continuously by self delusion.
There is nothing new under any of the suns.
Who ever predicts this next breath and the next
Feels for the moment self assured.
Who holds but a single guarantee?
For mortality is not beyond such a stake.
There is no guarantor in existence
Other than God.
And it is that which is wholly his wind
Which pushes and chases the nodes.
That is the Ontological inspiration:
The ghostly drover.
We are mere conduits;
Covers for the eternal light.
The Direct Drive of existence
The clouded clowns of mystery
The balancing acts on a dazzling dawning line.
The writers of memories
For all the wounded and the slaves.

©2019 Christopher Thompson  all rights reserved.

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