Messengers

Messengers
By way of a change,
The mood moves
For once against the tide.
We will not be howling, canine like,
This night.
Our carnivore nature is quelled
For the present.
Heeding long since
Our carnal shortcomings,
So have, due to certain conclusions,
Departed the den of Preys.
And whence too,
A short while later
Are far gone from The pit of Poets.
Because, having gained
Such long knowledge of nocturnal verbiage,
We find ourselves this evening
In need of purging once more.
So this which is shown here
As of a single mind written.
Which is Language, so easily spewed,
From thought to font to eye, then lips.
But who has vision, or anvil ears
To capture such?
Who has, in their own mind any connection
Or even be bothered?
However, should there exist an audience,
Then who are these, our morsel catchlings?
Be they zero, but fellow Do Doodlers?
Perhaps Wordsmiths too,
Who may be on course and foot falling
This very same pathway?
Slyly I conclude,
Should that prove the case,
I would repair
To keep quiet from here on forward.
Because a simple loop such as this,
Could be fully closed and unrewarding.
This discharge of thinking
This noise on the paper,
Is here for discovery.
Is intended to be recovered.
We are not shouting, as if in a valley.
We are neither echoes or wolves.


©2019 Christopher Thompson
All rights reserved
Messengers