A Passage on Poetry

These words are like eyes focused,

Or as I would focus with a little bit of truth,

On being and existence.

I settle a while,

I sense a widow,

A woman of hope has opened

The last gate of life.

She praises and genuflects,

On bended knee.

She feels she is facing the right direction,

So is safe.

She is surely saved.

I watch from a safer distance.

Too livid to be counted among the fallen,

I have forgotten my past, thus,

I count myself as innocent.

How can this be?

I alone am unable to do this.

This widow has hope,

For us all and herself.

I delude my own hope,

Further out of reach.

Although

I have been mixing goodness,

With these acts of Self Will.

My circle of truth still loses its worth,

It’s diminished

More so with the pain.

And accompanied,

With the pasage of time,

I retreat

And accomplish damnation.

© 2014-19 Christopher Thompson All Right Reserved