The Edge of Death

I know I am not the first to think.

But I try to no the less.

Neither am I the first

In the struggle banish Woden,

From the entrails of my life.

Do not attempt to understand me,

Just listen for this short wholeness,

And while away with me

Some of our globules of time.

Do this,

Whilst I wear away some of this summit.

Listen,

Because I will talk of life

As though I am a glistening soul.

It is a clear bid for another pardon.

With sincere workings of my simple plight,

I will suffer, I will not take flight.

Regard,

I too, am, though to a lesser degree;

Composed of joy.

Though,

I conceal it well, since I am charged with pains.

I still have hold of a life and am mortal blessed,

This is sufficient.

I Centre up the sky,

Being boxed in, because of mortal gains.

In this body,

I am sentenced to breathe in the short term.

And I kiss my luck goodbye,

As I crease the edge of death,

Readying the soul for release.

C 2019 Christopher Thompson.

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