The crush begins in selfdom.
With a persistent grip,
The pressured vacancy of the mind,
The canapé of doubt,
Served with relish, to oneself.
The worst waiter in the worst of places.
Self help for the damaged, the dammed,
The fully drained, the void.
Hopes and dreams long gone,
Caried away in the ripped paper bag of hope.
The spilling of life chances making sounds
Like the coffin lid nailing of everything valued,
And these fastenings pierce flesh and souls.
It is not coincidence that mood governs life
And it is lowest in the lives of life’s lowest.
C 2019 Christopher Thompson
All rights reserved