Yet am I born of a bias called love?
This despite the correctness
Of the detail of a linear purpose.
And that I am merely in procession,
Pointed in the direction
Of the Arrow of Time?

Is it I am governed by the Will of that
Which resides beyond the cycle of life?
That which being the very cause of The Cosmos,
Negates any incidence of Chemical Chance?
In my Attosecond life,
Am I not so isolated as science would dictate?

What latent discovery, bonds me to time,
When all to the good can be explained?
But none will listen to those intricacies,
Even fewer will understand,
So what is the good of that
Where is the good even in maps?

When no one needs to know
That is beyond all edges.
Save that your linear purpose
Is, as is mine, resident in that mind,
Which is beyond the reaches of space time,
Which was existing before the first helix.

Extra to theories of an electromotive slope,
There is descendant,
A bias towards a bias,
And that bias is called love.

© 2014-18  Christopher Thompson  All Right Reserved

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Nil Quantum Vagis Latus Revised v1.02

This is a treat of taste.
In that these evergreen shoots,
These fruits of the finger,
That have been visited, 
Fidgeted and shuffled,
That have been throbbed over
Multi-plus times.

Finally are compacted,
Intact and complete.
They are Finished,
All over and are out.

And for which or what, have I suffered?
I have become Opus to their tricks.
I am devoured, the winery fool.
I distill.

As it is, 
With the fabled, 
Blind Coopers’ triumph.
I now open my oval shell
And am revealed to the World.
I trickle down within these unfortunate fumbles,
Completing one tank at a time.

© 2018  Christopher Thompson


Survival of the Richest in the Kingdom of Life

Here is a script for the unread.
A fable,
A table of sequences,
As periodic as the Seven Ages of Man,
It about an unreasoned end.

And the grave exchanges of life.
It is written In the leaves of love,
Yet it is lost on those for whom
It has been written.

It stirs before the morning
Or even the egg,
Or even the season,
Or the sperm.
It’s a little after midnight
On the Adam and Eve,
Of The eve of just now,
Or its just after the eve of the Big Bang.
When the aftermath
Was math.
When the Flash of Inspiration
Was in the cosmic wind.

There was no language to describe
No code.
Code and it’s accompanying notions
Were yet to evolve.

There was only purposeful chance.
All that was for certain was that
It was now well past absolute zero o'clock,
Therefore there was now a something,
And preceding, beyond this beginning ,
Might an X exist?
And now there was a hurtling.
There must have been a time.
So Time was established.

This being later equatable to truth,
It would not be believed
If it were not true,
Astral theorists take note
Proof can always be found.
But why postulate on events absurd?

© 2014 Christopher Thompson  All Right Reserved

A = WP (without prejudice)

There is no religion here
Along this knife edge,
This sword.
Have we so evolved
To this?

This weapon.
It is unable to deliver,
It is only able to remove.
It will not compute,
It will however divide.

Those who reject the pattern
The rule,
Or Law.

Those who would think about
Their motives,
Or reasoning.

There is no love here
At these edges,
This blade.
How do we escape
From this?

Or Love?

There is no religion here,
This weapon,
Removes, Prevents,
There is no love here.

(C) 2018 Christopher Thompson

A = WP  (without prejudice)
was written in England.






There is no intrigue here,

My narrative delights you
With its simplicity.
Know you are perfectly loved.

My message unfolds
From these layers of grace.
Like emerging petals or whispers.
By the joy you feel within, know you are loved.

You do have worth,
Which is Out of this World.
And you will stand in highest regard.
Because your pattern has been set by my hand.

You have within you
My reflection, my breath, my life,
You have my direction to follow.
And I have placed you near to me

You are more precious to me
Than any Universal See.

No spark,
No bang,
No storm of stars.
No fission or fusion can ever explain,
No number of reasonings or philosophising,
No man made mistakes
Or acts can ever give true account,
Or test me,
Or explain me
Or catch me
Or refuse me
Or chase my Nebula.

Our search is for you.
You have only to know me
And I will give you your world.
That is the expanse of my love.

©2018 Christopher Thompson All Rights Reserved

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