Many of my thoughts,
Thoughts such as these,
Are laid before me,
Are spread out,
Like grasses that are fresh
And green to the touch.
As though strewn
And are not unlike
Confetti in celebration.
Written across somewhere
Not unlike Graffiti.
Not to sound too silly,
They are markers in time.
Woods in winter,
Lived yet uncared for.
Each of us
Who live in this presence
Are as guilty as horses.
We live in the moment.
Relishing as we slowly move along in procession.
The difference between us?
Only the whereabouts of our fields.
We are steeped in quality.
Nobles by choice.
We drink from the chalices of life
Where ever we find them.

©️2019 Christopher Thompson  All rights reserved

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