This comes from a small square house, Set in green rolling countryside. Not quite alone, not quite home. For I am from a conurbation Way "up-country", I am very Midland in many of my ways. How do other of the awkward do? This is an entertaining question. In their hunt to survive How do they fair? In the relentless, jostle, jumble jungle. It’s a headlong dash, Toward forever and away from fallibility. Being forevermore late, Mostly latent or deemed missing. How can the pained cope When their pain is so draining? With everyone else is speaking Others words serve only drown us out. Our short winds seem to fall silently, Settling over the rest of us Gathered, unnoticed in the thin air. Against the dark of the night Many are knelt, praying in pews There is no where else To genuflect To press their point, No button of hope for those Anguish soaked souls. Still the prayers rise to the rafters And the penitents line up close to each other, With their praise and their debts. How the awkward struggle In the dreary haze of living. Who is there, Who is here to heal their bruises, To meet their needs? No one gets given sight of That virtual Cosmic benchmark With which to align, better to compare. They have no vestibule, nor datum to measure No lever or anchor against which to rest. These who constitute the awkward, Walk everywhere on sods of existence. Eventually these sods seep back to the soil To disappear with no history. ©2020 Christopher Thompson All rights reserved.
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