I have no speech writers,
To describe my version of events
or my limits, or the joys of life.
I am but one, who is at one
Within my own nib.
I am a feather and a hand.
Being intricate in nature, I am at times too severe.
I have no model on which
To hang my messages.
I free wheel, freely blown on the wind.,
Which is by way of inspiration,
And with which I measure my life.
I aim to never be contained.
I have no need of a thought vault.
The descriptions you read here,
Are of me “talking you through” my subject,
My everglade, my sunshine state of mind.
The nothings, I duly dismiss along the way.
I find no reason for any other activity.
For these things which I describe,
They are words set free
From the stone walls of judgement.
They are the results of my menial reasoning.
They are therefore lashed to my mast,
As we submerge our brows.
They are linear in pattern
They are as meaningful now,
As when they were originally broadcast.
Ideas nolonger confined,
There transcription in truth, alters nothing.
These views, these outward looking works
Compress a myriad of expressions
Into cold cast verse.
And the weight of argument
Is expressed to the reader
In uncalibrated inspiration,
And given value by interpretation.
These are not matters merely for intent
By feather or nib alone.
They are intended and voiced to illustrate
The growing pains mixed on the palette of paint,
Which tarnishes those evil of eye,
And speaks of deliverence and contentment.
These are also the foregone conclusions of birth,
The tagged pages of history,
The ragged waifs, odd and of the under belly.
Massed humanity grovelling in the depths,
At the gritty press of life.
And it is where pigment plays no part.
On a cellular level humanity hobbles
On a level playing field.
And at what cost to life?
For some there are not enough beams to count,
For others too many to harvest.
And the wage slaves looking upward
See only the soles of others boots.
They form the fruit on which society feeds
And the mat on which society breeds.
They are not down trodden,
They are just there.
And they Trust.
And they are us, look around.
(c9)2018 Christopher Thompson