I can’t remember

My thoughts are ephemeral
Like the fleeting glance
To a stranger.

Are they lost in the moment?
Lost to the moment?

As time passes they are taken off,
Like lanes in the woods
Leading to the far off place;
Or like leaves blown to the
Treeless places of fantasy.

There is a stream
Called Consciousness,
So named
By the Knowledgeable Ones.
The deep
And Psychologically Interested.
The Specialists.
Those dipping their toe
In the flow of the ripples of life.
Touching the stone
On the river bed,
They are able to elude
To the truth of
The Spark of The Mind,
And the Cold Chill of the Will.

My thinking is more leaky.
I arrive and forget.
My reason is lost to the tide
Like the ebb and flow
At the shore.
Rising forward
I rush to and fro,
Entangled in the strings
Of delight.
I froth and am gone
In the blink of an eye lid.
I command no language
Of life.

My, my I am proud,
And Alpine in my delivery.
I speak with the voice
Of the hillside,
Steep and with momentum.

I echo.

If I were unable to write,
My drivel would be diluted in
The Steam of Consciousness.

If I were able to be right,
My poem, scratching the page;
Locked in the scroll,
Would not be senseless,
But instead, in Season for Everyone.

Christopher Thompson

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