Cold and Sweat (revision).

Neat rows?

That’s not really like me.

I scatter words,

I knit in verse

The structures of a brain.

 

I’m an I’ll fitting document.

I strain the syllables,

Like the wires, tight,

Across the neck,

Of my instrument.

 

I tend to Village in life,

Rather than Town,

In my game of dislikes.

I find these days

I tire rather too easily, too.

 

I seem small and to be dwelling

In childhoods’ various districts.

I like Towers then Trains,

I swing low to scoot

And my Trolley is my Chariot.

 

I also bounce at life,

Like the Oval Ball.

I Kindle ideas for far too long,

Then I leave them to rest,

Forever.

 

In truth,

I’m a little overripe,

And I’m idle.

I was, after all,

Late into life.

 

Once happy

Like a floppy hatchling,

I feathered myself with down,

But lately, drenched in life,

I am become but a harvest time clown.

 

And I seethe,

Longing,

For a friend.

So I grip my life,

Like a lace.

 

I replay my history

On a loop, and then, and then gain,

By shivering myself awake,

I find I’m only Crying like a baby should.

No cold, No sweat.

 

Christopher Thompson

April 8th 2018