Making Sense

How is it

These easy pages stick to my hand?

So that now I am unable to shake them off.

Also the ink that is bloting

Against the edge of my pen,

I cannot rinse away either.

I once owned these words,

Exclusively.

If only for the first moment

As and when the ideas transmitted,

Through nervous link,

From head to hand.

But once scratched on the page

Anyone who is interested enough

Or stumbles, metaphoric upon them,

Instantly takes possession.

I donate in scribble this text,

Along with all of its sense.

Now You and I are equal shareholders.

Me the writers riddler,

You, the one who deciphers.

C 2019 Christopher Thompson,

2 thoughts on “Making Sense

    1. The piece is released for all to have. If the words carry any meaning for the reader, then the loop is closed. In that sense the truth conveyed is shared by both sender and receiver. A poet with no reader is like a sail with no wind. Neither moves. Thanks for you kind works and words

      Chris T.

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