Night O What a Mare

At the stroke of my pen,

As I live and scribe.

It will be as if midnight

Has stricken me in a dream.

Wavy lines I now compose.

I shall ģrasp my nib as though

To scratch out my eyes.

I have thought recently

It may be better,

To have no further use for vision.

Vision, I have cometo believe,

Dulls the senses,

It stupifies the mind.

And as I now seek

To be in touch with everything,

Psychosis begins to tighten the binding,

And my cranium creaks for a little while.

So now I plunge, safety net at the ready,

Into my new adventure.

I have a consistent ear to the ground,

More out of necessity than design.

The noise too, helps paint a picture.

I blink my minds eye, at will.

And the nose trumpets the new horizon

As I tap into my mindset.

I am making headway, with my head.

There is room next to me for a companion.

Alas, not one steps forward.

Self inflicted injury it would seem,

Still carrys with it a significant stigma.

Tomorrow I might venture to the pound

To decern which canine, if any,

Will see fit to choose me.

In truth, at tomorrows dawn

I shall again see in, a new light,

And pondering the morning sights

Set my gaze at what the day will bring.

© 2019 Christopher Thompson

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