The Night Jack

Better soon
That I should turn
Full quarter,
To the fourth corner
Of this world.
Bedded and sand headed
I am trying
To quell my fears.
Albeit I would simmer
In the under heat.
I should know and experience
Then the drain,
Of my grave and its effect
On me.
And so the wasting of my
Limited time is felled
From another original wooded tree.
Should I be?
Should I be tempted again?
I do not think so.
Or relive the Dream time?
But then, every night brings
It's own ghosts home.
Why would I so construct
A den of blankets
As though I was asleep?
I am forgotten of pardon.
A rusting dead ringer.

Words & Photograph 
©2019 Christopher Thompson.
All rights reserved