Cold and Sweat

Neat rows,

That’s not really like me.

I scatter words,

I knit in verses,

The structures of a brain.

Like an I’ll fitting garment

I strain the syllables.

Like the wires, tight,

On the neck

Of my instrument.

I tend to village

Rather than town,

In my game of dislikes.

I find these days

I tire rather too easily.

I seem to be dwelling

In childhoods’ varied districts,

I like Pylon Towers and Trains,

I swing low to scoot

And my trolley is my chariot.

I also bounce like

The oval ball.

I Kindle ideas too long

Then let them rest forever.

In truth,

I’m a little too idle.

I was, after all, late into life.

Once happy, like a happy hatch-ling,

I feathered myself with down.

But lately, drenched of life,

I am become,
Like the butt of the clown.

And I seethe for a friend.

I grip like a tightly tied lace.

I replay, like a loop,

Over, then over, and over again.

And, after shivering cold,

I mistake myself awake,

To find I am only crying like a baby.

 

Such has life become,

Because of the cold and sweat.

 

 Christopher Thompson