At The Edge of My Wit

Instinct tells me
This is worsening
I have ventured previous.
With you in the laughter lane,
At times with such joy.
And at other times
Like a file on a nerve.
You are an ache
Which I cannot relieve.
So how has this happened?
I was for so long,
Undiagnosed and safe.
I loved as though
Immune to you.
Now my calculus is become
Like failed camouflage;
Which it is.
It turns out I have hidden
Too long within my breathing.
And an admission so simple;
My love of you,
Has crazed the edge
Of my wit.
I am become
Like that
Of a Younger Self,
By Truth
The Younger Poet,
Uncertain
And again in writing.

© 2014 Christopher Thompson All Right Reserved