Tumbled Down The Years

Free at least, free at last
Seem to be the faced scores.
Scratched striations of you
The many faceted distant you.
And the faded echoes
Of that dragged part
Of a dreaded past.
The screech of another
Increasingly sublime
Passage if time.
It may all Llanyyffy seem
A little bit Welsh.
It is all Welsh to me,
Yes all a bit Edward,
Backward living, looking.
Loving to be,
Leaving it too latent.
An ongoing, eastern loneliness.
Uneven, believe me,
Even me.

©2019 Christopher Thompson
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