If I were still Green

I could stand tall,

Among these growing grasses.

I’d be willow like too,

And I’d glide along with my life.

All ahead could span my days

Which I would spend walking

Under Midland skies.

In my Northern Hemesphere

I would feel temperate.

I’d live out my plan.

But as it is,

I crumble dry as tinder.

The past never far behind.

I swallow chunks and drink,

I am oxygenated.

Yet when I pose soulful

In front of my empty mirror,

I see nothing beyond my past.

Expecting nothing of any future

I am opening the door to death.

Wecome, was I conceived for this?

Christopher Thompson copyright 2018