My Title Is Earned

In my memory months

I sit in all wrongs,

In all wrong doing.

And in visiting rage

I fit the bill.

My title is earned

My vision has been blurred,

I carry my hurt, due to unfounded,

Or mistaken representations.

 

The vaults of my life

Are locked in my Own History,

My facts often hidden

In the covers of my books.

I cling with my fingers

To the rhyme or the reason,

The jape or the statement

Of a secret police.

 

They are not up early enough

To counter goodness of heart.

Those who are so infantile,

Those mothers or fools.

 

© 2018  Christopher Thompson    All Rights Reserved

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