There is no indiscretion here,
No slight of hand
Or conjured miracle to see.
This is not a harp I play
It is a widdlers axe.
And is therefore not a stick
Or insect either.
This circumstance of course
Is not of my mood or doing.
Albeit casual or causal,
I am but the instrument
Fashioned by way,
Of a love intense.
Nurtured as true love intended,
And so, am here, present.
I am of a substance,
Not of the simple soft cement,
Intended for jointing.
Nor am I of any vial.
But of live organic measure.
A unique occurrence,
A union of A to B for a C.
Of cellular chemistry, physics
For a mind.
And the reason for the Universe?
Is simply this and to know.

©2019 Christopher Thompson.
All rights reserved.

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