Worldy – Wordy – Worthy?

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