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,
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,